It's The Little Things (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Why is that it takes life to get tough before we stop and smell the roses? I've been on such tight deadlines lately - in the midst of traveling to promote my October suspense, In Plain Sight - that my stress level hit the dangerous mode. You know, that time when everything registers in the red - your temper, you bank account (because you didn't take the time to deposit the checks that have arrived), passions. Everything is over the top. You cry more easily, anger more easily, need more love. You've got nowhere to go but over the top. So there I am, at the top, ready to topple over, and I look down to where I might land and see the most amazing things. Not because they haven't been there, but because I'm actually looking.

The sky is this cerulean, perfect and clear amazing blue. (Really, it is. This isn't just over the top stress talking.) And the ragged mountain peaks - opposite the one my ofice sits on - reach toward that sky with such strength and purpose. All around me are magnificent plants, saguaro cactus and prickly pear, teddy bear cholla, ocotillo. The rock formations are mind boggling in their differences. Quartz glistens in the sun, sparkling like diamonds.

And a little closer in, there's my baby girl, Taylor Marie, in her four pound princess glory. She's a toy poodle, named after her mama and her sissy and she's proud of that. Proud of herself. She's learned how to play by herself lately, but she doesn't complain. As I write this she's tipping her bed full of toys over. I know her plan. She's going to climb up on top of the bottom of the bed rather than lay inside like ordinary beings do. That's how Taylor is. Rather than following the status quo, she rearranges her world to suit her. I love that. And her.

As I focus a little closer, I find Raggedy Ann. She's just over two feet of soft, stuffed love. She's been sitting in my chair with me for the past month - ever since the day I was so involved in my October, 2007 suspense, Behind Closed Doors, that I needed to hold her to stay in my chair. She was happy to comply. And to reassure me that all was not darkness and fear. I liked that. I like her. So here she sits.

Here, if I'll only take time to look are all the small things - the tools that life gives for free, every day, readily available to bring joy and pleasure and peace to my days. My favorite song is playing on my computer. I have a diet coke in the glass next to me. It sits on a coaster that my best friend bought for me during a trip we took together.

Life is good. Life is great. It's just a matter of sharing the small things.

ttq

I Did It! (Suzanne Forster)

I took a road trip. Gassed up the convertible and headed out all by myself. It was very cool. Admittedly, it was a short journey—at best a couple hundred miles round trip to San Diego for a long weekend. To road trip veterans it might not even qualify as official, but when you’re directionally challenged, and you have two fractured vertebrae in the middle of your back, you’re probably lucky to be driving at all.

The thing is I couldn’t not go on this trip. It was a unique opportunity to re-unite with writer friends from what now seems like another era in my life, and I knew I had to get myself down to San Diego, even if it meant taking the train, which would have been fun, actually, but not workable, time-wise. This particular group has invited me on other occasions in recent years to join them for their brainstorming and networking sessions, but my life was booked solid with family and work obligations, and there was never a window of opportunity, especially since the members meet all over the country, and travel is always involved, which is half the fun, of course. But this time the stars lined up perfectly, and even though there was driving involved, I was ready, willing, and much more able than I realized, to make the trip.

Driving is tough for people with back problems, and I can rarely go for more than a half-hour without feeling the pain. Riding in a car isn’t usually a problem, probably because there’s wiggle room, and my back likes lots of wiggle room. This is why I wasn’t looking forward to a two-hour drive and had tucked some Tylenol and a bottle of muscle relaxants in my bag. But, I didn’t need either! I drove the entire two hours without a pit stop—or popping a single Tylenol. Is that a woman of steel, or not? I probably should have stopped to stretch, but I didn’t even do that. I can’t explain how it happened, except that my back must be healing now that I’m no longer commuting from one state to another, hauling multiple suitcases, and caring for my mom, who required a good deal of physical help.

It’s very easy to neglect your own health when you’re focused on someone else’s, whose needs are much more critical. It’s an occupational hazard of care giving. I can remember my mom’s wonderful doctor diagnosing me with anemia when I took her to one of her appointments. He did it just by checking my eyes and fingernails, but a blood test later confirmed it. The man was a lifesaver—and must have realized that I didn’t have time for my own doctor appointments.

Now that mom is gone, the focus is on my health—and guess who’s been making up for lost time? I actually have three doctor appointments of my very own next month. I know that sounds excessive, but in this age of medical specialization if you have a hangnail, you have to go to the hangnail doctor. It’s all very territorial. If your thyroid’s out of whack, you darn well better find yourself an endocrinologist, because the gynecologist won’t treat anything that doesn’t involve bottoms up and foot stirrups. Hence, three appointments for what I hope will be three fairly routine checkups.

And now, thanks to this road trip, I’m wondering if I need the foot stirrups and the thyroid panels. I’m clearly in better shape than I realized. Isn’t it funny how we discover things about ourselves, seemingly by accident? If I hadn’t taken this trip, I’d still be thinking I couldn’t drive two hours to save my own life. And what a loss it would be if I hadn’t had the chance to reacquaint with writer friends from what seems like another era of my life.

These are wonderful people—screenwriters, poets, nonfiction writers, and of course novelists, but mostly in other genres. It’s a great eclectic mix of sci-fi, horror, thrillers and literary stuff. A couple of us bring the women’s fiction element to the table, and everyone has fun trying to come up with characters and plots for such a varied bunch. It gets pretty wild. And it’s interesting that many in the group are not published in book-length fiction, or full-time writers. They just love writing. It’s in their blood, and they live for these get togethers. I met most of them years ago, when I was unpublished. Some were fellow aspiring writers in my novel writing classes at Orange Coast College in Costa Mesa, and others I met when I taught at a San Diego State University Writers’ Conference.

It was a great reunion. I tossed out my new story idea and they batted it around like a volley ball. Lots of crazy fun. And some good ideas, too. When the creativity waned, we snuck in some sightseeing, taking a road trip into the local desert and then back to the beautiful Mission Bay area for margaritas, chips and salsa. Yum. I could live on that diet. On Saturday, some of us took the afternoon off and hit the San Diego Zoo. I’d been there maybe twenty years ago with my mom, and we’d had a great time, but you have to be in pretty good shape to walk those hills and cover all that ground—and I had some trepidation because one of my health issues is a bad knee. I did great, barely a twinge! Blisters, though. I’ve got a beaut on my little toe.

Of course, the time was over much too quickly, but the warm feelings and the triumphant glow still linger. And thank goodness the highlights of special times can be captured in blogs like this. I’m just so thrilled at how well I held up. I thought I might get overtired and have a rough drive home, but again, it was a Tylenol-free trip. Plus, I got back in time to see the Academy Awards on the new flat panel TV the dh had installed, in high definition yet. Such excitement! Actually, the Oscars were fairly dull except for some lovely moments, but seeing paint dry in high definition would be exciting, so it was a good night. And a great weekend all around.

Suz

The Oscars (Anne Stuart)

For some reason I stayed up late and watched the Oscars last night. I had extremely strong opinions (I always do) even though I hadn't seen most of the movies yet. It takes a lot to get me into a movie theatre -- the nearest is 25 miles away and the only one with matinees and a wide variety is 70 miles away -- so I usually make do with videos. In the last year I've seen Casino Royale, Children of Men, Lyrics and Music, Pirates of the Caribbean 2 (which oddly enough I liked better than #1), and probably a few others which have now slipped my mind. And while I wanted to see Babel, The Departed, The Last King of Scotland, Pan's Labyrinth, and a dozen more, I've missed them.

I like a lot of bad movies -- Pirates 2, Gone in 60 Seconds, The Saint, tons more.

I hate a lot of good movies -- The Snapper, Big Night, Fargo (funny and brilliant but it leaves me with a yucky feeling).

But every now and then a movie is both brilliant and blows me away. And I'm assuming The Departed is going to do just that.

Your first task -- go to Blockbuster or whatever on-line service you use and rent Infernal Affairs. Not only do you get Andy Lau and Tony Leung looking gorgeous, you get the original movie The Departed was based on, and an absolutely brilliant piece of film-making. Good enough so that anything that comes from it has to be brilliant as well.

Your second task -- see a bad movie, just for fun. A movie everyone despises, one you expect absolutely nothing from (for instance, Ghost Rider) and you might find yourself pleasantly surprised.

And your third task -- see a movie that's totally different from what you usually watch. If you only see comedies, watch a heart-breaker. If you only like serious stuff, watch a slapstick comedy. Rent movies from Taiwan, Russia, Chile, France. If you took endless years of French, rent a French movie and turn off the subtitles. Hell, rent a Japanese movie and turn off the subtitles. It's amazing what you pick up anyway.

Movies and television got me through a tough childhood, and at best they feed my creativity and inspire me. At worst they give me a happy two hours of a different world, sometimes tragic, sometimes wonderful, sometimes terrifying.

Watch a movie today -- you'll be glad you did.

Some unexpected pleasures: No Way Back (as opposed to No Way Out) with Russell Crowe and Etsushi Toyokawa. The first season of La Femme Nikita. Harem with Nancy Travis and Omar Sharif (horrible and I love it). The Outsider with Timothy Daly. A Foreign Affair (early Billy Wilder) with John Lund and Jean Arthur. The Bitter Tea of General Yen (early Frank Capra and very strange).

Or if you're in the mood for comparisons: Shall We Dance (Japan) vs. Shall We Dance (USA). Seven Samurai vs. The Magnificent Seven. Breathless (France) vs. Breathless (USA).

Or just some lush, romantic favorite like Last of the Mohicans, Phantom of the Opera, Legends of the Fall (even though I hate that one). Something with beautiful men doing beautiful things.

Tell me about a movie I might have missed. Something I'd love to pieces. Movies are one of the great pleasures in life -- to quote Anthony Bourdain, "I'm hungry for more."

And the Publishers Weekly *Starred Review* Goes to . . .

. . . our own Beloved StoryBroad, Pat Potter!

Just a sample of the lavish praise heaped on Pat's April release, described as "Sparkling with high seas drama and tender romance ":

"Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure."

Congratulations, girlfriend. We're all mighty proud of you!

The Mirror of Our Discontent (Lynn Kerstan)

Most of us live many lives. The one we have, of course, however much we dislike it. And all the lives we want to have, experienced only in our imaginations.

We escape into stories. We fantasize. Some of us even project our own deepest wishes onto other people, especially our children. We try to spare them what we suffered. Give them all the good things we never had.

But I don’t have kids. Only a cat. And there’s not much way I can project myself into his life, which is pretty much tied up with sleeping, lounging in comfortable places, eating, playing, letting others clean up his messes, and being admired. Come to think of it, that might just be the perfect life. Well, except for the neutering.

So I guess my fantasies get loaded onto the characters in my books. They are all quite different, of course, those men and women. When I bid farewell to a hero, I make sure the hero of the next book is nothing like the one I left behind. Same for the heroines. But after creating 19 pairs of published lovers and more than a few that never saw print, I can see patterns emerging.

Their similarities to me aren’t many, but most of them share, in one form or another, my deepest-held, immutable values. Those are few and unsurprising. What I notice, though, is how often my characters have minor-league qualities I always wanted but utterly lack.

Such as perfect white teeth. Not very likely in Regency England, where my previous books were set, back when there were no braces, crowns, caps, or Crest White Strips. But surely there were people with exceptional teeth–stands to reason–and it happens that my characters were among them. In the same way they take frequent baths and almost never have bad breath. I hasten to add that I personally bathe and hair-wash and floss obsessively. Am clean, thank you very much. But the perfect teeth? Never had ‘em, never will.

Same goes for flawless skin. Except for the heroic scars, or the occasional heroine zit to be played for comedy, my protagonists are blessed with superb complexions. Sigh of envy.

I’m sounding pretty shallow here. But there was real, if temporary, pain involved. As I completed college and graduate school, my great dream was to attend Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service and serve my country in the diplomatic corps. Travel! Glamor! Excitement! Challenge! Maybe save the world.

OK, never thought that would happen. But the rest of it seemed possible. Except that I lack the ability to learn any language that isn’t English. Yes, I could cram well enough to get good grades in school, but once the test was over, everything I’d retained for a few weeks hotfooted it out of my brain. Permanently. So unless the State Departed assigned me to the Court of St. James for life, my dream career could never be. And it wasn’t.

Which helps explain why so many of my characters have a remarkable facility with languages. Current heroine-in-progress Katia speaks six of them fluently and is studying Japanese. It’s relevant to the story, her language proficiency, but I could as easily have given her another skill set. I just keep projecting my own inadequacies onto my characters . . . up to the point they rebel and start acting out.

In that, they are like children, demanding to become their own selves in spite of my need to sculpt each one of them into an idealized, fictional Me. And they always win. They invariably wind up being more interesting and complex and proactive than my own projections of unrealized fantasies. It’s a good thing, too. I’m not good hero material. In my wildest dreams, I’d never scratch up their courage, their tenacity, or their energy.

And never, ever, could I work my way out of the trouble I throw at them!

A Birthday . . .

My mother will be 97 next Tuesday. Another milestone, but one she’s not particularly happy about.

It’s been nearly four years since my dad died at 93. She misses him terribly and really, really wants to go to join him.

I dedicated my first book to the two of them. Theirs was a love story that lasted seventy years and still persists despite his death. He’s still very much in her heart. They were never apart during those years except for the few business trips he took as an engineer for NASA. Once he retired, they were never apart.

They were one of the reasons I could write romance novels. I knew there were happy and healthy relationships that lasted forever, where one was never truly whole without the other.

He told me – frequently – how they met. He saw her across a room and announced to his brother that she was the woman he was going to marry. His brother said no, that she was an university girl, and he was a poor technical school student. He said she wouldn't have anything to do with him.

But that wasn't the reason she hesitated to date him. Instead, it was that he was a bit cocky and had a habit of calling her at the last minute to go out. She quickly put him in his place, but his persistence won out. Her father was opposed to their marriage. He had sent her to college to be a teacher, and she had no business marrying a penniless graduate of a technical school in the middle of a depression.

They married anyway with only her mother in attendance and then he had to pick up her things, passing by her father who sat in a chair, completely ignoring this presence. She always said she admired him tremendously for going in and out, gathering her things, under the disapproving glare of an unmoved man.

They were different. My dad was gregarious. He never met a stranger, and he was one of those people that was automatically picked when attending some kind of show that selected people from the audience. Whether it was a hula in Hawaii or dancing in Greece, he was always the first to be selected. He had that twinkle in his eye that told the actors he would be fun. And he always was. I remember one time when we went to Escot, and there was a medieval farce being held in the street. The actors pulled people from the crowd and dad, of course, was one. He stole the show.

Mom was quieter. She was a reserved Norweigian. She loved to read, and was perfectly happy to be alone while dad loved to be with other people. Any yet mother kept friends forever. They balanced each other out.

They both loved to read and instilled the love in my brother and myself when we were toddlers.
Bill and I loved comic books. They were appalled but instead of taking them away, they subscribed the two of us to the Junior Literary Guild. We received a new book every month. It was like twelve Christmases each year.

When I was writing my first book, I just casually mentioned the fact in conversation. My dad was ecstatic, absolutely convinced that it would sell. I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t even sure I would ever submit it, but he pushed.

And then it sold, and I was afraid to let him read it. It was, gasp, a romance, and my dad, bless his soul, was somewhat of a prude about things. I winced when thinking about him reading a love scene. I was single and I knew he would be trying to figure out how I knew about some things.

I shouldn’t have worried. I received a call one day from Canada. He and mom were on vacation, and he'd wandered in a book store and found my first book. I hadn’t even received a copy yet. According to my mother, he bought every copy and went up and down the street telling everyone that his daughter had written a book. That crazy American, Canadians probably thought.

After that he was my biggest fan. He would accost women in book stores, telling them they should buy my book. He placed them in the bestseller slots. He got all his golfing buddies – all retired military – to read them, and they became fans.

He was always a force in everyone’s life, and then he died, and Mom’s core was gone. The balance was gone as well.

She’s in a nursing home now. She lived independently until about fourteen months ago when her legs just stopped working, and an injured shoulder made it impossible for her to move on her own. either with a walker or wheelchair. She then suffered a septic infection that deteriorated into congestive heart failure. For several months she was semi-conscious and on oxygen and went into a nursing home. Then her heart stopped. It started again on its own, and she awakened from a long sleep. But now her life is limited. She has no strength in her legs and can barely hear, but her mind is still strong. She has short term memory loss but long term memories are still there.

The nursing home is a very good one. It’s almost like a hotel with aquariums and song birds and bright walls and private rooms. But she hates being dependent on people for every single thing, including changing all garments and moving from a bed into a wheel chair. I go over every night – and take along the small dog which she loves – but it’s not enough. We have changed roles now, and I seem to be more mother than child, taking special foods to tempt her appetite, or persuading her to take a whirlpool path when her legs ache. She argues she hurts too much, but after much persuasion she finally goes, and feels better when she returns.

But she’s terribly unhappy and can’t understand why God won’t take her. She asks what she has done that he won’t. And it breaks my heart. I wonder at times if modern medicine is really a blessing some times.

But next Tuesday is her birthday, and I’ll make a crab casserole she loves, and my brother and his wife and two of her grandchildren and their children will be there.

It will be a good day for her. And I expect Dad will be peeking in as well, a twinkle in his eyes as he whispers once more, "the moment I saw you, I knew I was going to marry you."

This & That, Maggie Shayne

I'm having a great week, I really am. My son in law came home from Afghanistan on Friday, and is finally back with his family where he belongs, safe and sound. I didn't realize how powerful the relief was until the wee hours of the morning, when, having fallen asleep on the sofa with the TV on (as I often do) I heard the words "A blackhawk helicopter has been shot down...."

As has become my custom, I snapped instantly awake, sat up fast, grabbed the remote without even looking for it, and thumbed up the volume. And then it hit me, Ben is home. I don't have to wonder if he's okay every time there's a casualty reported on the news. I wish every family had that luxury right now.

So that was a Very Good Thing. And there have been others. The big one, being that I finished the book, a couple of days ahead of schedule, and sent it out to my editor and agent, and my agent read it and absolutely raved about it. (Shameless plug alert: the book is DEMON'S KISS, it's the next in the vampire series, and it goes on sale in December 07.) She really, really loved it, and for all the same reasons I loved it. Now for a long time I kind of took that sort of reaction for granted. But in the past two years, I've really been struggling. The last book I turned in had to be completely rewritten. Twice. Or more. Life went haywire for me and it showed up in my work. I was a mess. I started this book when I moved into this house. It took me four months. My writing pace has been increasing steadily during that time, and the creative fire burned hotter day by day, until I began to feel like I was back to the level I'd been at before life turned upside down. And then I began to feel like I was soaring past that level, to entirely new heights. It's such a relief. But it was even more so when my gut feelings were confirmed by my agent's glowing praise. I needed that to be absolutely sure I wasn't engaging in a case of wishful thinking.

I'm going to show you the mock up of the cover, but it's not final yet and you never know how drastic the changes might be.


A lot of other good things happened in the past week. I was watching the Oprah episode on THE SECRET (you can view it at www.inspired2action.com/Oprah_Winfrey_Show_The_Secret.html or just click on the link in the title of this piece) and wondering where all the copies of THE SECRET DVD were (I had ordered five), when the mailman came to the door with them. I mailed them off to my five daughters immediately.

And more good things. I was wishing for a means to get the snow shoveled off my roof when the phone rang with a cherished friend telling me of someone who could do it that very day. And it got done. And it was a good thing. I wouldn't have even thought of having it done, but it seemed for two days that every time I turned on the TV there was a story of someone's roof collapsing, and then just when I decided it was a message and that I'd better get up there and clear mine off, the news anchor said, "And whatever you do, do NOT go up onto your roof alone. NEVER go up onto your roof unless there's someone else on hand, just in case." Well, the timing wouldn't let me ignore that warning. And just when I decided to hire someone to do it, that phone call came.

Oh, yes, there's more. More good stuff. I was saying I really needed my next check to come in about two months sooner than it really, possibly could, and then I got an email from my editor letting me know that was exactly what was going to happen.

I was wishing for some overdue contracts to arrive, and they did.

I wishing for a new exercise routine to pump me up until I can get outside and run again, and I lo and behold, an infomercial popped on the tube advertising the newest from www.Beachbody.com. I've bought DVDs from them before and they're always the best I've ever had. So I didn't hesitate to order "Hip Hop Abs" and I do not regret it. What a fun, challenging, killer workout! (My other fave from them is Slim in Six, in case you're looking.)

It's all been good. And it's not just wishing for things that brings them about, it's wishing for them and then expecting them to happen. What you expect to happen tends to happen. So try expecting the best instead of fearing the worst, and you'll tend to attract really excellent things and people into your life.

I'm expecting to have a really excellent week next week too. Here's a game to try, just so you can see for yourself that it works. Write down some really positive intentions for the coming week. What are the things you want to happen? Write them down and expect them to come about. Once you've written it, nod your head firmly with an attitude of, well that's done. Don't doubt that they will come to you. Doubt puts up roadblocks that keeps the goals away.

Here are some of mine:
In the coming week I will finish the novella I'm working on, "Melting Frosty" for Berkely's AN ENCHANTED HOLIDAY collection.
I will finish reading the books for the contest I'm judging, well ahead of the deadline.
I will paint my upstairs hallway, and stain and hang the trim.
I will exercise and eat healthy every single day.
I will remove the snow from the back deck.
I will drink a ton of water.
I will feel good and happy and enjoy being alive.
I'll play with my dogs.
I'll blast music and dance around my living room at least once a day.
I'll get outside every day that it's over 30 degrees.
I'll order five more copies of THE SECRET to give away.

There. Now, what are some of YOUR goals for the week? Expect them to be done and they will be.

And really, go to the website and watch the Oprah episode, if you missed it when it aired. And if that gets your interest, then go order THE SECRET and view it for yourself. And if that makes sense to you, then go to www.effortlesshealing.com and do the Destination Transformation program, free. You can thank me later. =)

Until next time,
Maggie

A new journey (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Do you ever wonder where you're going? I don't mean, like, when you're trying to get to an appointment and are lost, but, rather, on the less pragmatic journey of life. Do you sometimes look at the road behind you (the past, memories, relationships you've created) and the road in front of you (plans, hopes, relationships that you're living) and feel completely lost? Do you ever wonder how you got where you are? And look at the future with confusion?

Or is it just me?

I've got all these esoteric ideas, these thoughts and beliefs of life's potential and where I'm heading and what I want and sometimes reality hits and here I sit, in a pragmatic chair in a pragmatic room in a pragmatic life and I don't fit at all. That's me, today, sitting here trying to blog about fashion, or travel, or my dogs and nothing fits. I'm not a kid anymore, with my whole life stretching before me, with all the choices waiting to be made. I've made choices, built a life, driven a long distance on my road and it doesn't look familiar.

Well, wait a second, let me back up lest you all send the white coats through cyber space. I recognize my surroundings! I know my name and all of the people and places that make up my life. I'm just not finding the me I started out with. I've been thinking I'm forging my way and suddenly wonder if maybe I've merely been forged by others' ways.

The chair's a bit uncomfortable. Not necessarily all wrong, just not fitting quite right. Maybe I just need to lose a little weight. Or gain a little weight. Diet and exercise, isn't that what everyone always says are the miracle cures for everything in life? (Oh, wait, I travel around the country giving workshops on that very topic!) Oh, and chocolate. It heals all. At least for women. Maybe I just need to get some rest, or take a vacation.

Or maybe I need to be grateful for today, for this moment and my uncomfortable chair. Maybe most of the best things in life come when we're sitting in uncomfortable chairs - because they force us to look around for someplace more comfortable. Maybe today is the day to find me in those cubby holes I've squeezed myself into. The day to pry me out and shake me off and take a good look at what I've got. What I've forgotten. To dance if I want to. Just because I want to. Or to cry if I need to. Just because I need to. To blare Helen Reddy music or Neil Diamond or Led Zeppelin. Just because the music moves me. Today is the day to find my comfortable chair and to race toward it with both feet, to throw myself down, lay my hands down on the arms and hold on.

Because today is the day the journey takes a new turn - one designed and planned by me. A turn that is directed by my heart, by the inner being who is tired of being cramped in uncomfortable places. I worry a bit about what color the chair will be, what kind of fabric it will have. How hard will it be to keep clean and how long will it last? I worry that the seat might get worn, the cushion flattened. Worry that I might find myself sitting on a hard wooden frame. But then it ocurrs to me that even, so, if that wooden frame is mine, created by me, directed by my heart, I will still love it.

I will find comfort there. And glory in the trip I've taken.

Bad Gas Karma (Suzanne Forster)

I'm writing this from the most sterile of all possible environments. No, not a hospital operating room. Not a scientific laboratory orbiting in deep space, either. It's my HOME. We've been fumigated for termites.

Now, keep in mind that no one around here has set eyes on a termite in years, but apparently that's beside the point. Our homeowner's association has a contract with a fumigation company, and every few years, we get fumigated whether we need it or not.

So, we just got back from the motel where we've been marooned for the last five days while untold termites met their fate, and it's, well, sterile in here. Even Mandy, the Cat, is disoriented. She's exploring and sniffing everything, determined to figure out where the heck she is. I'm trying to encourage her not to sniff too deeply and breathe in the Vikane gas they used to fumigate. Trust me, if it can kill termites it can kill anything. And did, apparently. There's no sign of life in here, not even the flotilla of tiny black fruit flies that so loved my vine-ripened tomatoes-and I thought fruit flies were indestructible.

My home! What's happened to my happy home? It really does resemble an operating room. Other than the leaves and twigs that blew in when the fumigation crew opened the place up to air it out, I've never seen it so bare and uncluttered. All the indoor plants were moved to safety before we left and it's too soon to move them back in. The cupboards are bare, and all of our food, even the provisions in the freezer, is double bagged in material that's supposed to be impenetrable. At some point I should open the bags and check for survivors.

The fumigation company has stringent safety rules. They have a long list of items that must be bagged, and they charge $100 for every unbagged item they find. I grabbed a loose package of Stimudents as we were on our way out the door. Phew, close call. You'd think all that preparation would be enough to ensure human safety. But, maybe not. We returned to a small pile of newspapers in the driveway, and as I opened today's edition, I saw a front-page article about a local condo complex. They've refused to have their units fumigated with the same chemicals just used on our place.

Several residents claim that sulfuryl fluoride, from which Vikane is made, is unsafe. Apparently it's regulated by the state and federal governments and will soon be listed as a toxic air contaminant. It's also being reviewed to see if current regulations are sufficient. The condo owners are insisting on an alternate treatment method, such as heat.

This was not good news to me. I've already had one close encounter with odorless, colorless gas this year. That was result of a malfunctioning heat exchanger in a furnace in the family condo in Olympia. The gas was carbon monoxide, which sounds a lot friendlier than Vikane, but it's also deadly. Apparently I have bad gas Karma.

As a precaution, we've decided to dispose of all the bagged food and anything else that can be ingested, like salt and pepper, sugar cubes, teabags, even vitamins, and we're washing all the bagged bed clothing, linens and towels. What fun.

But, hey, no more termites. I am curious about something, though. If it's too soon for the plants to be brought back inside then what are we humanoids doing in here? Maybe Allan read the printed instructions wrong? I can only hope. The fumigation crew assured us they use precisely calibrated machines to monitor gas levels, and no one's allowed back inside until it's safe. I wonder if anyone told them that Vikane is now a toxic air contaminant.

That "pet suite" at the Ramada Inn is starting to look good to me. That's where Mandy and I stayed during the fumigation. The dh couldn't join us, except for visits, because he's allergic to cats in small places. Probably just as well. Mandy's still a bit nervous around him. Mandy's nervous around everything. It's part of her charm. We call her Fuss, short for Fuss Budget. Did I mention that I inherited her from my mom? Like mother, like kitty.

Actually, there are some benefits to living in a motel, even with a nervous cat. I didn't have Internet access or any of my favorite cable TV stations, so I got lots of reading done, one of my guilty pleasures. Also, I did some shopping and found a pair of white flat sandals. Have you shopped for white sandals lately? They don't exist here in the land of beaches and sunshine. I've spent the last two summers searching for a pair. These are Naturalizers, known for their comfort and beauty, a coup.

And now that we're home, Mandy's fine, and I'm the one who's nervous. The newspaper headlines didn't help. But we have a plan. We'll continue to take shallow breaths, keep the windows and doors flung wide for the next couple of days-and be very grateful we don't live in Minnesota.

Suz

It's Only Rock and Roll (Anne Stuart)

So I like rock and roll. Always have, always will. It's in my blood and bone, heart and soul, and if I'm on my deathbed and hear Otis Redding singing Try a Little Tenderness I'll get up and dance around the room. (Rock and roll being, for me, soul, r & b, hip hop, rock, and just about anything with a beat).
I watched the Grammys last week, because I keep hearing good new music that I've somehow missed. No surprises, really. I'd already loved the Dixie Chicks and the Police, and while I admire Shakira's hips and Chris Brown (was that his name?) and his ability to jump, the musical highlight was Christina Aguilera singing "This is a man's world." Always despised that song, since it came out in the dawn of feminism, but hearing it from a woman, really wailing into it, was a revelation.
But the most interesting moment for me was the end, with The Red Hot Chili Peppers. My 19 year old son and my 56 year old husband were watching with me, all of us fairly bored, until the Chili Peppers came on stage. Now, the Chili Peppers are good -- not enough to get me to buy their music but I like it when I hear it. But I watched them for a while, and said "oooh, yum, Anthony Kiedis is hot." My husband and son rolled their eyes, used to me.

So I turned to them and said, "don't you think he's hot?" and of course they both said he wasn't their type, and, not having the brains to drop it, I said, "but don't you know rock and roll is about gorgeous men shaking their asses and sex?"

And my husband and son said, "no it's not."

Ha! Of course it is. Rock and roll is about hot women singing Work with me Henry, it's about Elvis's hips, it's about Marvin Gaye's silky voice, it's about hot men in blue satin, hot men in leather, hot men in grungy t-shirts and baggy jeans. It's about sex. For women it's lust for the object of their desires and all that sex permeating the air, for men it's identifying with all that sexual power and the phallic guitar (think Prince at the Superbowl).

That doesn't demean or belittle it. It celebrates it, for the life-giving force rock and roll is. Elemental, powerful, the survival of the species. Long live rock (be it dead or alive).

Now actually I love all music -- world music, even some hip hop (I like the rhythm, the anger, the political content -- DMX and Runaway Love), techno (Aria), opera (I'm a sucker for Puccini), bluegrass, jazz, hell, even polka music. As long as it's got soul.

In my well-spent youth I saw (numerous times), the Stones, the Who, the Beatles, CCR, the Band (who changed my life), Eric Clapton, the Doors, the Stooges, the Kinks, Jethro Tull, Ike and Tina Turner, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Moby Grape, Merle Haggard, Loretta Lynn, Bob Dylan (every time I could), Sam and Dave, Rod Stewart (with Jeff Beck and with the Faces), the Byrds, Crosby, Stills and Nash, the Flying Burrito Brothers (God bless Gram Parsons), Fairport Convention, Silly Wizard, Steeleye Span, Richard Thompson, TM Revolution, Lyle Lovett, Bonnie Raitt, L'arc-en-ciel and a million more. No one understands the heart of rock and roll better than I do. (Many people understand it as well -- just no one better). If you want to see some of my favorites hop on over to my website (www.anne-stuart.com).

And it's all right that my husband and son don't quite get it. I won't try to enlighten them -- maybe their vision is right for them. (But they're wrong!).

So, a poll. Two part. One, is rock and roll about sex? and two, what's the best new song you've heard in the last year (I'm making it easy on you). And you can list more than one.

You know my answer. Yes, rock and roll is about sex. Best new music? For me, maybe African music (I'm just discovering it). Or emo-ish pop rock, like Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol or Collide by Howie Day.

Have at it! (Oh, and a small plug for my favorite radio station, Disorder on Sirius satellite radio. Almost every song is a revelation).

Naming the Animals

Most authors can't truly engage with a story until they have found exactly the right names for their major characters. Pets are major characters in our real lives, and naming them is also a special process for some of us. What names have you chosen for your pets? And what led you to choose those names?

When All Else Fails . . . (Lynn Kerstan)

Helpless, helpless, helpless

Baby can you hear me now?

The chains are locked

and tied across the door,

Baby, sing with me somehow. Neil Young

Yesterday, Pat wrote about love songs. I’ll do that, too, but today it’s all about hopeless, desperate love that spends itself in places it never thought to go.

You know how it feels. Someone you love is ill or in melt-down. Something you care about can’t be changed, not by you. You feel helpless. So do I. But we still have to sing, somehow.

Many years ago, a friend pointed me in a direction I’d been trying to find. There’s nothing dramatic about the path, and it doesn’t satisfy our need to make a difference for the people and causes that most touch our hearts. But it changes us, which is where all change begins. And in ways more profound than we realize, it plants strong seeds in the stoniest of grounds.

I met JimK during my years as a bridge-playing, multi-job-working rambler. He swept into San Diego like a tornado, witty and talented, gay, flamboyant, and kind, son of a schizophrenic mother and just a little wild-minded himself. We soon became fast friends. I loved his humor, curiosity, and inventiveness.

But mostly, I admired the way he made everyone in his company feel special and chosen. The most innocuous, boring, or irritating people were as welcome as the most scintillating of his friends (such as me, or so I hoped!). You could practically see people open up like morning glories in his company. And he accomplished this without ever being the least bit phony, or sucky-up, or preachy. Quite the opposite. He was just plain fun.

But always, he was attentive to others. He noticed things about people and found ways to use the information for their benefit. I’ll always treasure the time he casually invited me over for dinner a week or so before my birthday, which was nowhere in my mind when he wheeled out my favorite of all things . . . grilled lobster tail dripping with melted butter. Lobster tails, I should say, more than a dozen of them, just for the two of us.

At some point in our acquaintance, he later explained, I’d mentioned my love for lobster and how miserable it was to never get enough of it. Unlimited lobster until I was could eat no more. That’s what I wanted. So for a birthday surprise, he went down to Mexico and came back with a bucketful of the critters. We ate them and drank wine and laughed, and I went home with leftovers for lobster salad. But best of all was that he’d noticed, and remembered, and gone to all that trouble to fulfill a casually expressed wish.

On another night, while we were sitting by the pool after a party, he explained his philosphy of life in three words: "Keep it moving." He was talking about Good Things. Kindnesses. Generosity. It didn’t matter whom we gave them to, so long as we sent the best of ourselves out into the world. And if we all did that, then it figures we’d all benefit from the kindnesses and generosity of others.

After a few years, Jim relocated to Mexico. My mother saw him occasionally. She taught bridge on cruise ships, and when the ship docked in Acapulco, he’d take her and some of her fine-lady friends to some pretty raunchy dives. The ladies adored him.

I wish I could say he reaped the goodness he sewed, but some time late, he was murdered. However hard we try to play our parts, life isn’t fair. Our stories are not scripted. At the least, not so that we can understand them.

But I never stopped believing we should keep sending out good things into the universe, even when we are helpless to fix what we want to fix or tend to the people we love. Most especially then. Most especially when there is no reward, nor any sign that we have made a difference.

And if there is an underlying theme in all my books, that is probably it. A secondary character in The Golden Leopard explains it to the hero (I’m condensing madly here) something like this:
"There is someone I care about . . . beset with difficulties . . . but I cannot be of service to her now. Which is why I offer to you what help I can. One must keep the waters stirred, you see."

"Which waters would those be?"

"Oh, I was referring to the pool at Bethesda. In the Bible, one of the Gospels, I think. People with ailments gathered there, hoping for a miracle. And sure enough, now and again an angel would come down and stir the waters. The first person to dive in was cured."

His freckles, bronze on flushed skin, grew darker with his obvious embarrassment. "The thing is, I cannot be of help to the one I would give my life for. She is unable to make her way into the healing waters. But best as I can, I mean to keep them stirred for others to take advantage of. In this case you, and after you, someone else."

Are you keeping things stirred up? Can’t hurt, Jimmie would say. Might help. And we have to try.

A Late Valentine (Patricia Potter)

Yep, I’m two days late. But that’s rather par for the course lately.

So let me step back to Wednesday. On that day the New York Daily News listed the one hundred Greatest Love Songs.

Now I love music. I love music as much as I love books. Put them together, and I’m an extremely happy person. Add a hot bubble bath and scented candle, and I’m in heaven. Music is also a necessity to my writing. I have everything from western music to classical to numerous bagpipe recordings, and, yes, the world’s greatest love songs that I keep reserved for writing my love scenes.

My favorites are not necessarily the all-time favorites of others, but most are included in the list New York Daily News compiled. Personally I would put "Love Is a Many Splendored Thing" at the top of my list, along with the "Unchained Melody," and "When I Fall In Love." "Moon Glow" should be there as well. Who can forget that dance scene in the film, "Picnic," without getting goosebumps – and maybe more -- down their backs? I think it ranks right there with the garage scene in "Witness" as the all-time sexiest/romantic scenes in film history.

Mind that I said romantic. Neither have actual sex in the scene, and yet the sexual tension is so strong, so powerful, that it beggars so many more graphic scenes.

I kinda like books that way, too. I love the anticipation rather than slam bam, thank you, mam. Someone once asked me to describe sexual tension. My reply: I want and cannot have, I really want and cannot have. I’m dying of want but cannot have.

And then you get to the actual love scene (I want and, by golly, I CAN have), and the readers are there (hopefully) with you, chaffing at the bit for the main event that changes the world for the characters.

And in the background – at least in my mental background – is the swelling of music . . .

But I digress.

Back to the list. Despite the fact that it neglects some of my favorites, I really can’t quarrel with the overall list. I fell in love (several times) to songs on the list, and many still tug at my heart for that reason. Nearly every one evokes memories.

According to the New York Daily News, each had to be popular enough to have ranked among the top twenty pop songs in whatever year they were released. Some, said Jim Farber, Daily News Music Critic, may find them smug, or sappy or overplayed. "But the songs here have probably made more lovers misty than any music in memory."

I don’t find any of them sappy or overplayed or smug. I loved most of them all dearly. They are there for a reason. People -- particularly couples in love -- were emotionally moved by them. And who can say there's anything sappy about that.

So is your song there? Or do you have a favorite not on the list? Or do you believe one should be ranked higher? Or do you have a great romantic movie scene?

In the meantime, enjoy the many memories this list awaken.

From the New York Daily News (http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/497113p-418804c.html)

1. "My Girl" The Temptations; 2. "I'll Be There" The Jackson 5; 3. "Wonderful Tonight" Eric Clapton; 4. "I Just Called to Say I Love You" Stevie Wonder; 5. "You Are So Beautiful" Joe Cocker; 6. "In My Life" The Beatles; 7. "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" Roberta Flack; 8. "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" Elvis Presley; 9. "Michelle" The Beatles; 10. "I Can't Stop Loving You" Ray Charles; 11. "Best of My Love" The Emotions; 12. "Bridge Over Troubled Water" Simon & Garfunkel; 13. "All I Have to Do Is Dream" The Everly Brothers; 14. "You've Got a Friend" Carole King; 15. "Killing Me Softly With His Song" Roberta Flack; 16. "To Sir With Love" Lulu; 17. "Sherry" The Four Seasons; 18. "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" Queen; 19. "Unchained Melody" The Righteous Brothers; 20. "Save the Last Dance for Me" The Drifters; 21. "Stay" Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs; 22. "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" Carole King; 23. "Up on the Roof" The Drifters; 24. "He's So Fine" The Chiffons; 25. "I Will Follow Him" Little Peggy March; 26. "Chapel of Love" The Dixie Cups; 27. "My Guy" Mary Wells; 28. "Happy Together" The Turtles; 29. "Back in My Arms Again" The Supremes; 30. "I Got You Babe" Sonny and Cher; 31. "My Love" Petula Clark; 32. "(You're My) Soul and Inspiration" The Righteous Brothers; 33. "I Will Always Love You" Dolly Parton/Whitney Houston; 34. "When a Man Loves a Woman" Percy Sledge; 35. "Reach Out I'll Be There" The Four Tops; 36. "Strangers in the Night" Frank Sinatra; 37. "Baby Love" The Supremes; 38. "This Guy's in Love With You" Herb Alpert; 39. "Love Theme From Romeo and Juliet" Henry Mancini; 40. "Higher Love" Steve Winwood; 41. "Sugar Sugar" The Archies; 42. "The Long and Winding Road" The Beatles; 43. "Close to You" The Carpenters; 44. "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" Diana Ross; 45. "Let's Stay Together" Al Green; 46. "Heart of Gold" Neil Young; 47. "Here, There and Everywhere" The Beatles; 48. "Lean on Me" Bill Withers; 49. "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" Stevie Wonder; 50. "Let's Get It On" Marvin Gaye; 51. "Midnight Train to Georgia" Gladys Knight; 52. "The Way We Were" Barbra Streisand; 53. "Love's Theme" The Love Unlimited Orchestra; 54. "Feel Like Makin' Love" Roberta Flack; 55. "Can't Get Enough of Your Love Babe" Barry White; 56. "Then Came You" Dionne Warwick and the Spinners; 57. "Lovin' You" Minnie Ripperton; 58. "Shining Star" Earth Wind & Fire; 59. "You Don't Have to Be a Star (To Be in My Show)" Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis Jr. ; 60. "How Deep Is Your Love" The Bee Gees; 61. "You're the One That I Want" John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John; 62. "Love You Inside Out" Bee Gees; 63. "Come On Eileen" Dexys Midnight Runners; 64. "Time After Time" Cyndi Lauper; 65. "Crazy for You" Madonna; 66. "Take on Me" a-ha; 67. "Moon River" Henry Mancini; 68. "With or Without You" U2; 69. "Vision of Love" Mariah Carey; 70. "Kiss From a Rose" Seal; 71. "Girl" The Beatles; 72. "Chelsea Morning" Joni Mitchell; 73. "P.S. I Love You" The Beatles; 74. "Just Like a Woman" Bob Dylan; 75. "Do You Believe in Magic?" The Lovin' Spoonful; 76. "Still in Love With You" Al Green; 77. "Somewhere" Stephen Sondheim and Leonard Bernstein; 78. "On the Street Where You Live" From "My Fair Lady"; 79. "Saving All My Love for You" Whitney Houston; 80. "Always on My Mind" Willie Nelson; 81. "Crazy" Patsy Cline; 82. "Sexual Healing" Marvin Gaye; 83. "Do You Want to Dance?" Bette Midler; 84. "Fever" Peggy Lee; 85. "Last Dance" Donna Summer; 86. "Just the Way You Are" Billy Joel; 87. "Songbird" Fleetwood Mac; 88. "You Make Loving Fun" Fleetwood Mac; 89. "At Last" Etta James; 90. "All I Want" Joni Mitchell; 91. "Natural Woman" Aretha Franklin; 92. "A Man and a Woman" Anita Kerr Singers; 93. "Someone to Watch Over Me" Linda Ronstadt; 94. "Some Enchanted Evening" From "South Pacific"; 95. "Do You Love Me?" From "Fiddler on the Roof"; 96. "Alison" Elvis Costello97. "How Can I Tell You" Cat Stevens; 98. "Have I Told You Lately" Van Morrison; 99. "When I Fall In Love" Nat King Cole; and 100. "Oh Girl" The Chi-Lites

The Valentine’s Day Blizzard of 2007--Maggie Shayne

This pic shows Sally, my great Dane, in snow up to her belly. She was not amused. For your reference, Sally is roughly the size of a small pony. And this was early on in the storm. We got 2 ½ feet.

I can hardly complain. (Oh, yeah? Just watch me!)
Okay, I can, but I probably shouldn’t. I mean, after all, people just an hour north of me have had eleven feet of snow in the past week. Now that’s something to complain about. I haven’t had, however. I have had a relatively mild winter, and despite my concerns about global warming, I was freaking enjoying it, okay?

So then Tuesday night (aka Valentine’s Eve) after the lake effect snow to the north finally let up, a classic nor’easter came barreling up the coast and dumped on us. Actually, it’s still dumping. I was kind of oblivious to the entire event unfolding, because I had finished a book over the weekend, mailed it out on Monday and spent the rest of the day in a coma, and spent Tuesday catching up on errands. I made the mistake of going to the grocery store, where I found dozens of panicked locals stocking up on bottled water. As if the impending snow storm is going to strand them in their homes for weeks on end. Why do people do that?

So that was hell. Traffic was awful, and I was starting to get the idea, from listening to the conversations in the grocery store, taking place over carts loaded with gallons upon gallons of water, that a storm was coming. Oookay. I bought extra dog food, the only thing I could think of that I might possibly run out of in the next two days, (two days being the longest imaginable time a single storm is going to make anyone housebound in upstate NY in the year 2007, by the way) and headed home.

It started snowing sometime after 8 pm. I left the outdoor light on so I could watch it come down. It didn’t look like much.


Wednesday morning, it did. It looked like very much. Like about 18 inches worth of much, and I learned another important snow-blower lesson. It would have been wise to drag the contraption from the shed to the front door BEFORE the 18 inches fell. (See, you plug it in to start it, and the only place to do that is just inside the front door.) Moving it through all that snow was brutal. But I got it done. Then I plugged it in. Then Sally the great dane saw the door open and galloped toward it, tripped on the cord, and annihilated the outlet. I kid you not. The plastic outlet cover broke into three pieces, and the actual plug part, the part with the little holes you stick plugs into—snapped to bits, too. That can’t be safe. *Note to self: call an electrician.

At any rate, I got the thing started, and used it to move the snow. It was hard work, but I had my Ipod, and I actually got a kick out of doing it. I was blasting Metallica, and singing at the top of my lungs. “I’m a gonna make you, shake you, take you, I’m a gonna be the one to break you, put the screws to ya, in my way, yeah come on, come on, come on make my day!” (I was singing this in blatant challenge to the snow. I could take it, and I was letting it know I could take it. It turned out to be a bit of a mistake.)

After I used the snow blower, I went for the shovel, and moved the remnants, cleaned off the car and scraped up what fell from it. There was a whole lot to shovel. Afterward, though, the driveway looked great. Right down to the blacktop. I had checked the Doplar radar before going outside, and it had looked to me like the bottom edge of the nor’easter was over us, and I figured since it was moving north and east (hence the name) it would soon be over.

I was wrong. I checked the radar again after the two hour shoveling marathon, and again and again as the day wore on, but the giant blue blob was barely moving. And the snow was still falling.

Skip ahead to four Wednesday afternoon. I decided to clear the driveway again. Another six inches, at least, had fallen. I bundled up and went out, then went back in, shocked. When did it get so cold? I checked the temp—it was five above! I didn’t start the snow-blower this time, just used the shovel, but from the way my back and shoulders are aching now, I wish I had done the opposite. Still, it only took an hour this time.

Anyway, I cleared it again. The snow seemed to let up, despite that there was more to come. My driveway was cleared. The roads were another matter. There are still travel advisories and states of emergency, and some of my friends’ roads were never been plowed at all on Wednesday. Some of them had really exciting plans for their V-day, and those plans fell victim to the snow. Rotten snow.

And I shouldn’t complain about that, either. My poor daughter’s V-day is being put off until at least Friday, because her husband won’t be home from Afghanistan until then—and he’s been gone a year!

And yet, complain I shall. I had the best hair day I’ve had in weeks, and I couldn’t even leave the house so anyone could admire it.

This morning, it's brutal outside. It's below zero, and the wind blew like mad all night. I’ll have to snow-blow and/or shovel again, because although it did finally stop snowing, it blew back in and drifted big time. The high today is supposed to be 5 above. I hope the wind lets up, so it stops drifting right back in. I hope the snow is done for a while. I hear the lake effect machine is supposed to kick back into action once the nor’easter blows on through. I'm going to wait until afternoon to clear it this time, maybe it'll be a bit warmer and less windy by then.

Take heart, though, folks. The groundhog did NOT see his shadow. Spring is coming early this year. Trust me on this. I wouldn’t have been singing mouthy, ‘bring it’ type songs to the snow storm otherwise, now would I? Besides, someone told me Nora Roberts got her start in writing while snow-bound with small children. (And no, she probably wasn't snow-bound for more than two days. With Nora, two days is plenty of time to write a novel.)

It occurs to me that, although I’m complaining, I’m a long ways from the woman who got frustrated and wept the first time she had to clear her own driveway. I’ve got it down to a science now, I can handle it, it’s not all that hard, and I actually get off on it. It gives me a feeling of empowerment to know I can tackle the job, and the aches and pains make me feel strong and let me know I not only cleared the snow, I got a great workout in the process.

So there, snow. Make my day. (Hehe, I'm kidding, snow. You can take today off, really, it's fine.)

Now, we’re halfway through February, which might as well be March, and as we all know, spring is going to arrive in March. So let’s get on with it already. I'm so ready for sunshine and warm temps!

Happy Valentine's Day (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Happy Valentine’s Day

Today’s a day for love. We Commercialize it. Chocolate it. Dine and Wine it. Some Jewelry it. Card it. We Stuffed Animal it. Many of us blow it off. We go to work. We watch TV. We wait for it to be over. Or we don’t notice it at all.

I’ve long been a hater of Valentine’s Day. Mostly because of all the February 14ths when I didn’t have a Valentine. I felt unloved. Alone. Not quite as good as everyone else out buying their cards and having dinner.

Today, I have a completely different view of the day. And the change of perspective came about from a very strange place.

I’ve been in criminal court all morning, observing a regular calendar. Defendants all chained together sit in a jury box and wait until their case is called. They stand. They hear legal ramblings, they say yes out loud for the record, and then they sit. There are no hearts and flowers here. This is real life, with real people who have made real mistakes. But they are still real people with real hearts. The defendants have loved ones sitting on a series of three benches behind the official courtroom area. They are not allowed any contact with them. And I watched as all of them found ways to communicate. With a look. A single mouthed ‘I love you.’ A nod.

And then another case was called. From behind me there was a gasped, "This is it." I’d thought the couple back there were family members of one of the defendants. They were not. The woman, a sweet looking dark haired woman in her thirties, stood up, took off her wedding ring, gave her husband a very long hug, a kiss that said she didn’t ever want to let go, and proceeded past the wooden partition to the front of the room where, sobbing, she pled guilty to a crime, was handcuffed, and with one last look at her husband, was led away. She was guilty. She has to pay. Happy Valentine’s Day.

And as I sat there with tears in my eyes, all I could do was be thankful for all of the love in my life. That woman has the love of her husband. She will be gone three years. I believe he will visit her at every opportunity, he will wait for her, he will support her when she is released. That is the kind of love this day celebrates. That is the kind of love I want to give. That is the kind of love I want to receive.

I got up this morning ho hum about the fact that it was Valentine’s Day. Now I want to spend the day in contact with all those that I love, thankful that I am free to contact them. To hug them. To sit at the table with them. To buy them cards and candy and look into their eyes and hold their hands. I stand corrected on this day. This is the most important day of the year. It is the day we celebrate our freedom to love.

Life on the Edge (Suzanne Forster)

Life on the Edge (Suzanne Forster)

Don’t let anyone tell you that writers aren’t wild and crazy people. Just because we sit at a desk all day—sometimes all night—and stare at blank screens for hours on end doesn’t mean we don’t live on the edge of that steep precipice called life. Strangers to danger, we’re not.

Writers are thrill seekers. Oh, yeah. And I’m here to dispel any myths to the contrary. Consider this a public service announcement to all yee who aspire to take up this profession. You won’t be living dangerously only in your books.

Let give you just a glimpse of how wild and crazy it can get:

Just this week I drank milk that was past its expiration date. How’s that for living on the razor edge? I also walked all the way to the mailbox in my jammies. Call me an exhibitionist. I’m sure the neighbors will. But since I usually work in my pjs it seemed like a lot of unnecessary effort to take them off and get fully dressed just go get the mail. And get the mail writers must. Snail mail and email are our lifelines when we’re on deadline. They’re the only way we know the world outside our workspace still exists. TV is mostly pre-taped, so the world could have gone to hell in a hand basket, and we wouldn’t know it for two or three days.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not adrenaline junkies to the max. This very morning I had cherry vanilla ice cream for breakfast. Believe it, breakfast. I’m going to do it again, too. Next week it could be rocky road. Depends on how edgy I’m feeling. For some people living large might be having pie before ten a.m. For me, it’s ice cream. Everything about the stuff feels decadent and forbidden. I guess we can blame that on my mom.

I also killed a spider in the bathtub today. This is huge if you’re from a deeply superstitious family. My English grandmother had a superstition for every occasion, including never kill a spider in the house. I can’t remember what would happen if you did, but I know it’s bad. Really bad, as in plague, pox, pestilence, years of draught and disease, and probably a sudden, irreversible allergy to chocolate. One of her other favs was: “Never start a project on a Monday.” Yee gods, how are you supposed to get anything done? Hm, perhaps that was the point?

Okay, so out of respect for my slightly dotty Mamo Tee-sin (my pronunciation of Gramma Stephenson), I tried to get my cat to commit spider murder. I whispered to Mandy, the Cat, that she was The Great Spider Huntress and All Powerful in the Realm of Arachnids, but when the spider started toward her, she ran. I fear Mandy wouldn’t do well in the wild.

Okay, more craziness. During this last holiday season I discovered shopping at night. Not adventurous enough, you say? Just driving at night is the mother of all adventures for me. If you’ve read any of my prior blogs, you know that driving in full daylight can be challenging.

A couple days ago, I told myself to lighten up and stop worrying about everything, and for about ten seconds, I actually did. It was like being weightless, lovely and scary. Not worrying worried me.

I’m now considering meditation. You’re wondering how this could possibly be a risky proposition? Or possibly you’ve already figured out that traversing the maze of my mental processes would be tricky for Houdini, if he were still around. How am I supposed to it? Don’t know, but I’m committed. Or will be.

I’ve signed up to attend a convention for ventriloquists and their dummies. Why? The answer is probably obvious only to a suspense writer. Research! I can hardly imagine a more interesting suspect in a mystery than someone who can throw his or her voice.

I called a lawyer to get the answer to a legal question and told him it was research for a book so he wouldn’t charge me. Bad Suzanne. OTOH, my mother’s lawyer actually charged me for phone calls made to me when I wasn’t home to answer. IOW, I was charged for her dialing time. So . . . maybe it’s karma.

I microwaved my sponges, only to find out later that they were supposed to have been wet. So, that's what all the smoke was about.

I switched soap operas. Yeah, buckle your seat belts. I just couldn’t handle any more of the evil Spencer Truman on One Life to Live so I recklessly clicked the Channel button and switched to As The World Turns. Now, I’m hearing Spencer’s been killed off. One of these days when I’ve got a head of steam I’ll switch back.

Guess who wrote a sex scene that involved bungee jumping? Yes, I know, that’s pushing it, even for the likes of wild and crazy me. It might also be the reason I don’t feel the need to actually go bungee jumping. Anti-climactic, I’m thinking.

I missed a doctor’s appointment the other day. I had a little crisis at home, and I made an executive decision not to go. It felt so good! I didn't even call and cancel. I just didn't go!!! Does that make me a fugitive who’ll show up on some TV show? America’s Most Medically Wanted? There wouldn’t have been time for the doctor’s office to fill the appointment anyway, but that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t call. I’d been waiting with some alarming symptoms for nearly a month for the appointment. No one in the doctor’s office seemed to care that I was sick, and by the time the appointment rolled around, I wasn’t sick. In the midst of my crisis that morning, it occurred to me that I had no need of a doctor. I was symptom free, a healthy woman. Of course, I'll probably be fired as a patient. Eh, so what.

So, if you had any doubts about writing being a thrill-a-minute profession, I hope I’ve put them to rest. Even our deadlines can be edge-worthy. Deadline dementia is a well-known condition, fraught with ticking-clock pressure, loneliness and isolation. However, if I ever get so lonely that I start looking forward to the telemarketer's calls so I can have someone to chat with, I'll know I’ve gone over the edge.

Okay, enough excitement! I have to catch my breath, but I’ll be back at some future point with another installment of my writerly adventures. Meanwhile, tell me about one of your walks on the wild side. Did you check your expiration dates this morning?

Suz, who didn’t even spell check this blog!

Praise to the Glorious One (Anne Stuart)

First, I was reading THE OUTSIDER by Penelope Williamson (for some reason I missed it when it first came out) and it was fabulous. There was a line about having something "just for pretty" -- so here's your little treat "just for pretty."

That's Yoshiki, better known as His Lusciousness.

But on to other things. It's done! ICE STORM is finished and delivered as of a few minutes ago, and I'm the ragged end of exhaustion, but I thought I'd pass along a few of my emails I wrote during the last, exhausting, 40 page day.

3:45 pm Friday

Where are my other toilers in the vineyard? I'm going to finish the draft today or die trying. Oh, shit, it's four? I woke up at noon. (Well, slept from one to six, woke up for a couple of hours, fell asleep on the couch, woke up, went upstairs at ten am and slept another couple of hours.)Hell, I'll be awake all night anyway.Book's gonna come in short, I expect, but not by much, and one of the scenes was already just sketched in, so that'll add a few pages.Besides which, I'm spare . That's what PW says, and I'm cherishing it. Anyone says my book's too short, I'll tell 'em it's my spare writing style.

Krissie, who personality is frilly but whose prose is not

4:00 pm

14 pages, to 376. I'm assuming I'm going to finish today. Richie's alreadybeen bringing me Tab and making me grilled cheese sandwiches, bless his heart. He's been making dinner very night as well, god love him. I keep getting spam saying my perfect match is waiting for me, and I always think, yup, he's in the other room.

Krissie

8:45 PM

22 pages. Tired. More to go. Almost done.

Krissie

9:14 pm

26 pages. More tired.

Krissie

10:38 pm

33 pages. Must ... rest ... must... get more tab ... must ... finish fucking book ...

11:21 pm

Richie just gave me a massage, god bless him.Now it's time to bring it all home.And damn damn damn this book is good. The world is not worthy!

Krissie

1:24 AM

Done! 40 pages, not a hotel in sight, and I'm too tired and not quite sure about the ending (though it made me laugh) and I think it just might possibly be utterly wonderful but right now I'm too tired to think about it.Tomorrow I'll print it up and then on Saturday and Sunday I'll revise this piece of brilliance. And then slash my wrists if I discover I've been suffering from delusions of grandeur for the last month and a half. Or open the Moet champagne if it's as good as I think it is.Too much champagne will give me gas, but what the hell. I'm worth it. The book's gonna be worth it.Now I think I will pass out. Krissie

******

So Saturday I read through it cleaned it up, Sunday I keyed in all the changes and fiddled with the scenes, and now, at 1 am in the morning, I've sent it out into the world.

And now I'm going to sleep for a week.

Anyone of you writers out there have marathon stories? What's the most you've written in a day (I think my record was 50-something but they weren't as good as this day's 40 pages).

Anyone know of a saner way to write a book? Ah, sanity's for wimps!

Fame and Misfortune (Lynn Kerstan)

Breaking News!

I glanced over at the TV. According to the fluffy, over-groomed anchorwoman, Anna Nicole Smith had collapsed in a Hollywood, Florida hotel. Paramedics had been summoned. No other information was available.

Which didn’t stop the anchorette from rabbiting on about possible causes and outcomes of this dire event. I’d gone back to sorting tax receipts until one statement caught my ear. "We’re dispatching a crew to the scene!"

A crew? Because a C-List celebrity passed out?? Don’t you people have anything better to do?!

After a long interlude featuring lame commentary and stock footage of Anna Nicole looking beautiful, young, stoned, worn, plump, slender, skanky, and sweet, the station cut to a location outside the hotel. Every TV crew in the states contiguous to Florida must have been assigned to the story. Trucks and vans lined the streets. Cameras, mikes, reporters, and support teams clustered around a small platform, awaiting a briefing.

The hapless official, when he arrived, had little information to provide. "That’s all we know at this time," he repeated several times, trying to break free. But the reporters kept shouting questions, pretty much the same five stupid questions using different words, and the official kept saying he didn’t know. Finally the desperate reporters turned on the curious onlookers and started interviewing them. They didn’t know anything either. Most didn’t even know who Anna Nicole was.

Not long after, her premature death was confirmed. And the ghoulish TV crews repeated again and again throughout the long day a short tape that showed the gurney with a blanket-covered body being moved from one vehicle to another, a distance of maybe ten feet. Someone tracked the number of Anna Nicole Smith references on the cable news channels from 3pm-12pm ET on the day she died. MSNBC, 170. CNN, 141. Fox, 112.

Like most people, I’m saddened by her death and concerned for the welfare of her baby daughter. But I’m furious that in a time of mourning, mother and child have been thrown to the sharks like chum.

What it is about Bad Things Happening to Beautiful or Famous or Accomplished Women that makes for a news-dominating story? Is it the public’s voracious appetite for gossip? Schadenfreude as we watch the rich and favored brought down? The relentless 24-hour TV news cycle that demands grist for its bloody mill?

Specifically, why are we served a constant diet of runaway brides, murdered young (pretty) women, female teen celebrities with eating disorders, female stars with substance abuse problems, a female astronaut stalking a love-rival with possibly lethal intent . . . ? Well, you’ve seen the stories.

Famous-men-running-amok can lead the news, but drunk driving and substance abuse is old hat these days. Testosterone-driven acting out gets more attention, but it happens pretty fast. A fella steals a tank and rams cars with it. A disgruntled worker shoots up the office, or a guy murders the girlfriend or family he thinks done him wrong. Big story, short legs.

It’s troubled women and their twisted fates that seize and hold the low ground of press coverage. As I’m typing this, I realize I need to change the TV channel. Next up, the latest about Anna Nicole Smith. Nooooooo!

To be sure, public fascination with celebrities is nothing new. Gladiators fought to become Roman Idols (and, yes, to survive). Great ladies sent them lascivious tokens of affection and had them brought to their beds.

In the mid-1700s, two actresses come down from Ireland caught the imagination of London. Maria and Elizabeth Gunning, so beautiful that artists clamored to paint them, vaulted themselves into the aristocracy. Without implants!

Elizabeth married a duke, and when he died, married a man who later inherited a dukedom. Maria, who also snabbled a peer, paid a price for physical perfection. A regular user of lead-based cosmetics (and arsenic as a beauty enhancer), she died in her middle twenties. But in the Gunnings’ heyday, huge crowds would show up at any place where they were likely to appear. One winter night, seven hundred fans huddled outside a Yorkshire Inn just to catch a glimpse of the beauties when they entered their carriages in the morning.

Human nature never fails to amaze me. But I’m still puzzling why females in distress or melt-down receive so much more attention than men in similar circumstances. Any ideas about that?

I’m also celebrating good news, which indicates that slowly, women are achieving what was virtually impossible only a few decades ago. This weekend, 371-year-old Harvard will name its first woman president, meaning that four of the eight prestigious Ivy League colleges will now be headed by women.

Like most women of her generation, Drew Gilpin Faust faced major obstacles on her road to success. The Boston Globe writes:
"The only girl of four children, she quarreled with her mother, who dressed her in ‘scratchy organdy dresses’ and warned her that, ‘This is a man's world, sweetie, and the sooner you learn that the better off you'll be.’ She rebelled instead."

Good for you, Dr. Gilpin!

Magic Little Pills-Maggie Shayne

Magic Little Pills

Suzanne’s post about moms and food got me to thinking about food issues, and weight issues, and health issues, and how a lot of us struggle with them throughout our entire lives and how advertisers, marketers and flimflam artists make millions upon millions of dollars by exploiting the most troubling issues women face.

Women worry about the way we look. We worry about every little laugh line, every flake of dry skin, every bad hair day, every ounce of fat, every bump, bulge, droop, sag, wrinkle, bag, and wrinkle. Want proof? I got proof. Magnification mirrors.

Why would any sane person buy a mirror that magnifies every pore to the size of an olive, just so that she can see her flaws more clearly? Why?

Flimflam artists know this about us, and they laugh all the way to the bank with the knowledge. How many infomercials tout the miracle of some face lotion or other? Miraculous, age reversing, wrinkle removing, skin tightening goop guaranteed to make you look ten years younger in ten minutes! Come on. And we believe them. Or maybe we don’t quite believe them, but we want to. We hope it’ll work. And so we buy it.

Every other commercial on TV is about weight loss. Pills are advertised by models who’ve never seen an inch of fat, parading around with washboard abs and tiny butts, telling you that taking this one little pill a day will give you the same body. Or by celebrities who’ve taken off a great deal of weight and credit the magic pill with doing it, even though we all know better. The truth is NO ONE has ever lost weight by taking a pill. Celebrity or otherwise. There’s a lot more they’re doing, things that would have worked just as well without the pill. The pill is nothing. Every single package of them comes with instructions to eat less, exercise more, “for best results.” That should read “for any results whatsoever. In fact you don’t even need to take the pills if you do this.”

I’m gonna give you the secret. First of all, you can be skin and bone, and still not have washboard abs or a firm butt. Those parts come from exercise. Period. No pill in the world can give you muscle tone.

And no pill in the world (no legal one, at least) can make you burn fat. (Amphetamines and cocaine can, but you really don’t want the side effects, folks.) Fat burning comes from exercise. Taking a pill to boost your metabolism won’t work. Healthy foods and regular exercise will boost your metabolism all by themselves, and in a healthy, natural, lasting way.

Keeping off the weight is very, very simple. Not easy. Simple. Burn off more calories than you take in. That’s all there is to it. That’s the ONLY way. Decrease intake. Increase output. Simple. And free.

There are programs that can help you with this, and the best one I’ve found is Weight Watchers. They are entirely based on