Our of Africa (Lynn Kerstan)

This week, I finally saw a film about a man who lived in England during the era in which sixteen of my books have been set. It’s a wonder, considering how much I admire him, that William Wilberforce never made a cameo appearance in one of my stories.

As you can see from the picture, he was nowhere near is lovely as the actor, Ioan Gruffudd, who played him. But then, few men are. And Rufus Sewell, who has made a career playing powerful-but-evil men who lose the heroines to bright, shiny heroes, goes against type in a wonderful performance. I could cheerfully watch the two of them in just about anything. Or in nothing at all, but don’t tell anyone I wrote that.

Anyway. The movie is Amazing Grace, named for a song (the lyrics) written by a British sea captain who transported slaves for twenty years before becoming a reformed preacher and penitent. In his own way heroic, he inspired the young, wealthy member of Parliament who would take up the cause of abolition and pursue it for the greater part of his life.
Yes, it sounds like a real downer. And yes, I wept copiously. You can get away with that at a Tuesday morning showing. But they were happy tears shed for a man who persisted in a noble cause until he beat impossible odds. And found True Love along the way. My kinda story.

I loved Amazing Grace. But it touched me most deeply, I think, because the story felt personal. When I was five years old, our Navy family got stationed in Asmara, Eritrea. The little country was part of Ethiopia then, with colonies of Brits and Italians left over from the aftermath of WWII. The native population, repressed as always when colonized, got on about life as best it could.

It’s a measure of their poverty that, on the salary of a Lieutenant J.G., we could afford two servants. The housekeeper, Hewatt, in full native dress, did not live with us. But our cook and sometimes child-sitter shared our small house. Tall, strong but gentle, with an inner light that one could sense without seeing it, Waldu looked like a cross between Sidney Poitier (when young) and Denzel Washington. He spoke seven languages. Even I could tell he was smarter, wiser, and in all important ways far superior to anyone I’d ever met. Back then, I failed to have a true appreciation of my mother, just as remarkable in her way.

Waldu (I don’t think I ever knew his full name) was friendly, but deeply private. Kept to himself, unless needed. Although he produced wonderful meals for us, I never saw him eat anything but bread or drink anything but tea. None of us could understand why. Probably he had another existence separate from us, but it never seemed so.

I was learning to read and write at a British school, riding my bike around the large military base, and fairly happy until my parents moved me to an Italian convent school. They thought I’d benefit by learning another language. I’d rather have had one person I could actually talk to. The only nun who spoke English was transferred the day before I arrived.

So I compensated, in my 7-year-old way. Came home for lunch every day, as usual. Missed my mother, who was in Germany for rheumatoid arthritis treatments. And then, Waldu betrayed me.

He saw me where I should not have been and told my father, who quizzed me at lunch (I lied like a rug) and gave me a non-brutal but memorable spanking. Just for playing hookey. Oh, and for the lying.

For a time, I refused to speak to Waldu the Snitch. But when he looked at me, there was sadness in his eyes. And I could never hold a grudge. Did I mention I’d been playing hookey for quite a while before he caught me? About four months, actually, starting with skipping afternoon classes and then skipping the morning as well. Mostly I hung out in the 24-hour Army base movie theater or one of the playgounds, but sometimes I just wandered around the native quarters of Asmara. No one ever bothered me. Shopkeepers would give me a piece of candy or a banana. I was cute and pretty wily for my age.

You’d think the nuns would have contacted my father. But they didn’t speak English and probably assumed I’d gone back to America. He didn’t make me return to school, and not long after, we were assigned to a post in California. But Waldu and I had become friends again, so in the interim, he took me to see all the things I was curious about. And in the many years that have passed since then, I’ve never forgotten him.

In fact, I always thought I’d return to East Africa. But life interfered, and a civil war raged between Ethiopia and Eritrea for a long time. Except for a couple of kids I sponsor there, I have only my memories of a fascinating land and an altogether special man.

Which is why the story of William Wilberforce, who fought so hard for the African slaves, touches me deeply. And because I was born in the segregated south, as were my parents, the issue of racial equality has always been significant to us. By never giving up, Wilberforce changed his country for the better. As Martin Luther King changed ours.

May other heroes, equally courageous and tenacious, rise up in a world that sadly needs them now.

A Shameless Plug (Patricia Potter)

My new book comes out next week, and this is a shameless plug.

"Beloved Warrior" is the third in my 16th Century Scottish series, all of which evolve around James IV, the conflict between the Scottish clans, the Battle of Flodden Field which killed the best of the Stuarts, and its tragic aftermath.

I tried to stay as true to the times and history as possible, and it was indeed rich historic times. James had married Margaret, sister to Henry the Eighth of England, and to all accounts it was very happy marriage, albeit all too short. James was the Scottish king who brought together the clans, in part by force and in part by his own charm. He recognized the need to stop the quarreling and the raiding if Scotland was to be free of the English, and he was considered very enlightened for the times. Justice, music and literature all flourished during his reign.

But at the behest of France, an ally, James led his troops against England in a terrible defeat at Flodden Field. He took with him the best of the nobles in Scotland. More than ten thousand Scots died, among them himself, his illegitimate son, the Chancellor of Scotland, the Bishop of the Isles, and the dean of Glasgow Cathedral. Fourteen lords of Parliament, nine earls and a number of lairds also died. It was a battle that deeply wounded Scotland and made its union with England inevitable.

After the death of James IV, Scotland was left in the hands of James’ widow and a wee child king while different factions (pro-English and pro French) fought for influence. It was a Stuart curse that the kings died young and left their kingdoms with only a babe to inherit the crown.

The series of "Beloved" books feature three Maclean brothers and their hundred-year-old feud with the Campbells. Rory, the sea captain, is called home to fight the Campbells in the first book ("Beloved Imposter"); Lachlan the would-be priest becomes an unlikely warrior in "Beloved Stranger," and Patrick, the true warrior, returns home in "Beloved Warrior," the book that comes out this week. All of the stories are entwined in the very messy politics and shifting alliances of the time.

Like most of my books, the series was inspired by a true event. The Campbells and Macleans were allies in Scotland until a Maclean married a Campbell and decided to kill her in when she proved childless. He chained her to a rock in the sea, thinking she would drown and he could claim a tragic accident. But some fishermen rescued her, and the attempt started a very nasty feud which lasted a century or more.

Ah, no author’s fertile mind could make up anything as grand as that for a tale.

I once said on this blog that given the opportunity to have any talent, or occupation, I would choose being an orchestra conductor.

But in reality, I would be happy doing any number of things, and one that ranks at the top of my list is teaching history. I had a very bad history teacher in high school. He was a coach and had little interest in academic subjects. The entire United States history course was memorizing the dates that states came into the union. Get those right, and you got an A.

But I was bit by the bug, anyway, and minored in American history in college. I had a great professor named Dr. Pancake. He had a devoted cadre of students that followed him from course to course – Jacksonian democracy, Jeffersonian Democracy, the Diplomatic History of the United States until 1890 and the Diplomatic History after 1890. His final exams usually consisted of one question: in Jefferson Democracy, it was Explain Jeffersonian Democracy. He didn’t care about dates. He cared about the impact of history on people, and people on history.

I loved his enthusiasm and love for history, and the way he infected his students with it. He brought all those centuries-dead characters to life. This is how, I always thought, that history should be taught.

My historicals are my attempt at making history come alive for my readers. I'm lucky enough to be able to indulge my two great passions at once: history and writing.

The research was pure joy, especially finding a book that was published in the early 1500's. It was crucial to the story, and I wanted an actual book published at the time. I went through any number of websites to find the right one. Finally, I found "The Thrissill and the Rois," the tale of the marriage of James IV and Margaret Tudor. Perfect. You could probably hear the cry of delight echoing two counties away.

Discovering the life of the border reivers ("Beloved Stranger") was just as much fun. Fascinating stuff. The border reivers – Scot and English – warred with each other, then played together. They raided one another and protected one another. They were just as likely to turn against their own country as their neighbors across the border.

And then I came to Patrick’s story, the last in the series. Back to the history books. He’d been away from home for many years. I had to give him a reason. What wars were going on at the time (There was always a war someplace)? Well, the French were fighting the Spanish. That would do. He was fighting for the French – an ally of Scotland --and was captured by the Spanish. He ended up on a slave galley.

Okay. Now I had to learn more about slave galleys of the time. Both the French and Spanish used them. I found a book written by a French Huguenot who was imprisoned upon one. Some terrific details.

And finally I finished the series as proposed. The three brothers were reconciled, and the Macleans were at peace, finally, with the Campbells.

And what about The Spaniard, a character who unexpectedly popped up in Beloved Warrior? He became more and more fascinating, and started to demand a book of his own. "Beloved Rogue," perhaps?

But now I anxiously await the publication of "Beloved Warrior" next week. And, as always, I'm a nervous wreck. I desperately want everyone to love my babies as much as I do, to fall in love with my hero and immerse themselves in the intrigues of Sixteenth Century Scotland.

All the worries are there. Will it fascinate the reader as the history did me? Will it survive a truly bland cover? Are historicals really dying in this market? I'll be going into manic mode, calling Ingrams hourly to check on sales. I cautiously visit Amazon and read posted reviews.

So bear with this nervous Nellie for the next few weeks. It one of the common afflictions of writers everywhere on the eve of publication.

Sunshine on my Shoulders, Maggie Shayne

The sun has returned! I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see it, shining so brightly, two days in a row now, and it’s supposed to keep on shining for at least three more. It’s melting the snow at a rapid pace, revealing the mess that winter left behind. (I have a great Dane, you know. I might as well have a Shetland pony. Suffice to say I bought a new shovel and a rake yesterday.)

Oh, but it’s good. It’s all good. Spring has been a long time coming and the final few weeks of winter seemed to be the darkest ones ever, and boy did I feel it—inside and out! But it’s okay now. This is my first spring in the new house, and I’m already discovering all kinds of little plants and flowers peeking up from the mud as the snow melts out of the way. I have a ton of plans for the place during the warm months, and I can’t wait to get them underway.

Mostly, I’m just glad to be getting outside again every day. I’ve been walking and running, and exploring some of the side roads in my neighborhood. I’m getting my bike out this weekend, oiling it up and doing some real adventuring. Map in one hand, odometer clicking, I’m going to plot out some new running routes. I found a great one yesterday that I think will be my new favorite. Great road, kind of a steady, but mild upgrade. It runs alongside a river, and the shoulders are wide and soft, and the views absolutely amazing. I walked a lot of it yesterday, but I didn’t clock the mileage, so that’s my next task.

The dogs love this weather. It’s not too warm yet, though, so they are a little confused. They look outside, see the sunshine, and whine to go out, but come back in a few minutes later, complaining that it’s not as warm as it looks. (Despite the sun, we’re not climbing much beyond the forties, which is as disappointing to me as to the dogs. But it will only get better from here.)

Okay, so, outdoor projects to improve my home and my mood—I have a list!
First, raking up the dog—er—remnants from the winter. Yuck. But I’ll be glad to have it done. Second, I need to pick a nice level spot for a fire-pit, and buy one of those circular fire rings for it. Nothing like a great campfire on a summer night to lift the spirits! I need to get some lawn furniture, including a great big cedar lawn swing. And maybe a hammock. And a picnic table. I need to plant some herbs and flowers, find some way to tame the hedges in front, and tune up the lawn mower. And I want to hire someone with some heavy equipment to dig out the little pond near the house, and get rid of the weeds around it. Oh, and there is a length of PVC pipe sticking out of the ground in front, because my house is on a hillside, and it channels the runoff into the ditch. But it looks ugly. I’m going to dig a bit around it, and saw off the visible portion of the pipe, then stack some flat stones up to create a waterfall. I might buy an ATV with a little wagon to pull behind it to help me with some of these projects.

I need to knock down all the beehives—I was inundated with them last fall, and there are hives all over my house and outbuildings. I want to get rid of them before it gets warm enough for the bees to wake up and start making pests of themselves. I need to get on that, because it’s going to get warm fast. Maybe I’ll do that today.

So those are my spring plans! Share some of yours. There’s nothing like working outside to celebrate the spring.
Maggie

A Tribute To Rachel (Tara Taylor Quinn)

My heart feels compelled to share something very special with you all this morning. Last week's post, while crying out of the heartache of living, gave an impression that I must fix - not because I've been told to, or because anyone has even suggested that I might, but because I simply must.

My daughter, Rachel, struggles like the rest of us. She makes mistakes. But she is the one perfect thing I've done in this life - not because of me, but because of who she is. Rachel grew up with more challenges than most kids face and she did it with heart and integrity and compassion. She is the most honest human being I know. She lives by her heart and lets that heart bleed for all of those around her whether that be a grocery store clerk, the lady that lives downstairs, or her father. She is fully accountable to her actions and stands up for what she says, thinks and believes even when standing up is difficult and painful. All of the days of her growing up she woke up with joy, facing each new hour as though it had magic hiding inside, always enthusiastic to see what came next, and always with a kind word for anyone in her path. Always. I kid you not. It used to embarrass me - her more reticent mother - when she'd compliment a total stranger on her blouse, or necklace, or pick up the phone (at six years of age) and call someone with a piece of wisdom meant to comfort them.

Our first indication that Rach was her own unique individual came when she was just over a year old and barely able to talk. She wanted chocolate for breakfast. I told her we don't eat chocolate for breakfast. She proceeded to get the doll that I used to convince her to do things. (You know the drill, it's time for a nap, baby's taking a nap so Rachel needs to take one too.) She holds up that baby and tells me baby wants chocolate for breakfast. In a lispy baby talk that sounds far too young to be using my own techniques back at me. I tell her to tell that baby that we don't eat chocolate for breakfast and she promptly holds the thing up, and says, but she doesn't have any ears. She was right. It was a stuffed thing that also happened to be earless. And so...the thought process was, if we can't tell her no, because she can't hear, we have to give her - and thus Rachel - chocolate for breakfast. I can't remember whether Rachel got the chocolate or not, but I hope not. And suspect she did.

One day, shortly after that I got a call from my Mom half a country away. She was upset with me for calling all the way out there, having Rachel say Hi, Mimi, and then just hanging up without talking to her. After swearing that I hadn't called her, which took some convincing, we eventually figured out - with the help of the phone company telling of the last call - that our less than two year old little girl had watched me dial those ten digits enough to know that everytime I did, her Mimi would be in the phone piece. She'd remembered those digits, dialed them, and did what she did everytime I called. She said Hi, Mimi and then went on her way.

When she was four, I caught Rachel holed up in a wing back chair in my office, reading Little Women. At five she was tested for school and ended up in the seventh grade. Fortunately there was a special program that worked with her until she was eight, at which time she took college entrance exams, and started college. By age seventeen she had three degrees - including a BA in Psychology. In less than six weeks, at age 21, she'll be graduating from law school.

But it's not Rachel's intelligence that sets her apart. It's her heart. All through her life, it's always been her heart that drew people - including me - and kept us captive, kept us there, let us know that even if she was only two or three, we were safe with her. She's graduating law school at 21. She had an amazing opportunity to make more money than I could even imagine working for a private firm, and instead, she's accepted a position as a prosecutor for the county attorney's office - working in public law for peanuts because her heart tells her she must.

When Rachel was three we took her to her great grandfather's funeral. We weren't sure how she processed it all - but did our best to help her understand and she seemed to take it all in stride as a natural occurence. Several days later, back home, back in our routine, we're driving down the road one day. Rachel was in her car seat beside me (back in the days when we had car seats in the passenger front seat) bobbing her little legs and jabbering. Out of the blue she says, Nanna needs a new man. I said, What???!!! She said Nanna just needs to find a new man and then she won't be sad anymore. She had it all worked out. And it was all about heart.

When the gulf war broke out Rachel was four. I had the news on all day while I was doing laundry. Rachel played around the house, keeping as busy as she always did, seemingly unaware of anything out of the ordinary. At dinner that night, sitting up to the table in her booster chair, she proceeded to tell her daddy that he had to call George Bush and then she listed a plan for her daddy to give to George to get Sadam Hussein to stop hurting people. Had the world been able to live strictly by the heart, her plan would have worked.

When she was six, my mother's purse was stolen. Rach found a private moment and a phone and called my mother and told her, you know, Mimi, it's not the things that matter. She told my mother that she loved her. I found out about this later, from my mother. Rach wasn't doing anything spectacular or even noteworthy. She was just being Rachel. Living from the heart.

My daughter struggles just like the rest of us. Oftentimes more than the rest of us. But this I know, the world is a better place because she is here. I am a better woman because she is here. If we could all live like Rachel does - from the heart - the threats and fears with which so many of us live would simply not be. There'd be no nuclear war possibilities, no terrorism, no hate crimes. There'd be no rape or hunger or betrayal.

I believe in Rachel. Not because she is my child, but because she is Rachel - a spirit who came into my life and taught me what life is all about. Whether she's there for a lifetime, or only for the time I had her to raise, I have been blessed beyond comprehension to know her so well. To love her so deeply. To learn to live by my heart in all that I do. I am one of the lucky ones.

Disneyland Survival Kit (Suzanne Forster)

Can you tell I’m grouchy? Wanna know why? Probably not. I can almost hear the chorus of NOs! out there. Well, tough nuggies. I’m going to tell you anyway because that’s the kind of mood I’m in.

I’m going to Disneyland. Again.



I have a friend from high school visiting, and that’s where she wants to go for the day. Make no mistake, she’s a great lady, to know her is to love her, but can you imagine? She went to school in the Jurassic period, same as me. Her kids are grown and gone. She’s staring her golden years dead in the eye, and she wants to spend the day getting blisters at a theme park? Somebody get out the tranquilizer gun.

I was thinking lunch at a lovely restaurant with a glass or two of wine where we could reminisce about the good ol’ days, congratulate each other on having come a long way, baby, and toast our survival. I’d imagined following that with a leisurely walk through one of our world-class malls, or if we’re in want of fresh air then maybe a stroll in the park. But not a theme park!!

Now, I know lots of you who live in other parts of the country and don’t have a Disneyland in your back yard would probably love to go to the historic original version, right here in sunny southern California, and my friend is one of you. But I’ve lived here going on thirty years, and I swear, everybody who comes to visit wants to go to Disneyland. I could be a tour guide! The Disney people should have me on their blinking payroll. Yeah, that’s what they should do.

But I’m not holding my breath. What I am doing is preparing—and here’s my survival kit so far:

Industrial strength bandages, the highest number sun block in existence, bulk antacid for the theme park fast food, orthopedic shoes, Mickey Mouse repellant, and LOTS OF MONEY. Disneyland doesn’t come cheap these days. Dramamine might not be a bad idea for those death-defying thrill rides, and a rain slicker for the one where they try to drown you.

For the long lines to the rides, maybe a portable stool and a good book? And for the restroom lines? NASA diapers?

Let’s see, what else?

Gatorade, blister ointment, sunglasses, floppy hat, Tylenol, preferably with codeine, moist Towelettes to wipe up the inevitable cotton candy that some kidlet will paste me with, my chiropractor’s cell phone number. And, oh yes, a big honking backpack to put it all in, which, of course, I will have to lug around all day.

Am I too young for one of the HoverRound chairs they advertise on TV? Actually, I’m hoping Disneyland has those golf cart-type thingees. I’m going to rent one and drive too fast. And let this be a warning to any humans dressed like mice or other furry creatures. I don’t brake for animal impersonators. Meanwhile, I’m going to put in another call to my friend and see if she’s come to her senses.

Big cleansing breath, Suzanne.

Okay, better. Good to get that off my chest. Now, maybe I can go and not be dangerous to society at large. I always did like Pirates of the Caribbean, and I hear it’s new and improved since my last visit. I might even run into some Johnny Depp look-alikes.

Captain Jack, take me away …

Suz

Huzzah Again!

Anne Stuart does it again! The Devil's Waltz is a RITA finalist in the Best Short Historical Romance category.

Featuring another of her irresistible Bad Boy heroes and an acerbic spinster who brings him to his knees, the story is fast-paced, witty, and wise.

Congratulations, girlfriend!

Huzzah!

Congratulations to our own Pat Potter! Her gripping 2006 novel is a finalist for the prestigious RITA award in the Romantic Suspense category. The winner will be announced at the Romance Writers of America Conference to be held mid-July in Dallas.

Tempting the Devil is a "book of the heart" for Pat, drawing on her real-life experiences as an intrepid reporter for the Atlanta Journal. She'll probably tell us more about that, and about the book, in an upcoming post.

Meantime, we're all thrilled for her. The RITA is the most prestigious award in our genre, and to make it to the finals is truly an honor!

Kings of the World

What do these 20 movies have in common? Well, besides being the top-grossing films of all time, having pulled in more than 18 billion dollars worldwide. Let’s talk about the qualities that make them appeal to so many people.

Why do almost all of them center around science fiction, fantasy, and fairy tales? Is it a matter of High Drama and Special Effects? Or is "The Hero’s Journey" really at the heart of storytelling?

Listed in order of revenue, from $1,845,000,000 for Titanic to 775,400,000 for Star Wars:

Titanic
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
LotR: The Two Towers
Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
Shrek 2
Jurassic Park
HP and the Goblet of Fire
HP and the Chamber of Secrets
LotR: The Fellowship of the Ring
Finding Nemo
Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith
Spider-Man
Independence Day
E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial
HP and the Prisoner of Azkaban
The Lion King
Spider-Man 2
Star Wars

*Yes, we know that George Clooney appeared in none of these movies. But we like looking at him.

Writing Rituals (Lynn Kerstan)

The cat is asleep on the cat tree. I remove a silent, manual can opener from the drawer and attach it to a can. Immediately, Lymond is twining around my legs. For him, can opener means cat food—ideally "tuna juice"—even though he mostly eats dry food. I get the same instantaneous, twining response just by opening the small cupboard where his kibbles are kept.

Sounds, places, odors, even time of day, become associated with specific experiences and stimulate specific responses. Training isn’t reserved for pets. Just as a cat hears a familiar sound and launches into the "Feed Me" suck-up behavior, writers can train their minds by association to glide swiftly from real life into the fictional worlds they are creating.

These rituals may be as simple as showing up for work at the same time each day. A writer who keeps to a schedule has cued her subconscious mind to come to the plate at the chosen hour. And the work space itself, with familiar furnishings and the things we surround ourselves with, sends its own message to the Girls in the Basement. So does the "work beverage," which for me is club soda with a squirt of lime juice or Crystal Light Lemonade with Diet 7-Up. Fact is, all routines are conducive to jump-starting the creative pathways in our brains.

Many of us have more complex rituals. I usually light a candle and pray for inspiration. Can’t hurt. I play the theme song for my POV character, and for the other protagonist if he/she will be in the same scene. I let the music soak into me, because the words and sounds draw me into the character’s thoughts and feelings. Finding the right theme song for a character is one of the fun things about writing. Like a character’s name, it is intensely important to me.

A book can have theme music as well. I usually work in silence, but other authors play the book theme (the soundtrack from Last of the Mohicans is a favorite), or soothing music, or, sometimes, a "white noise" CD while they write. The subconscious opens up to the familiar "time to write" sound like a morning glory unfurls to sunlight.

A short pre-writing bit of self-hypnosis can be effective. In a future post, I’ll tell you how it works. But for now, I’ll describe the routine with which I begin every "new scene" writing session.

Between me and the unexplored territory of an all-new scene lies a wide and bottomless chasm. And I can’t get to the other side as myself. I’ll be writing the scene in a character’s point of view, which means I have to see and feel and experience everything that happens as if I were that character. Well, to a degree. The conscious mind is always in control, which is why it can work the computer while my Regency heroine is shooting the hero. (What? You thought she’d be pouring tea?)

So I begin these writing sessions by entering the mind and the emotions of the POV character at the moments just before the action starts. What are her feelings right now? I try to feel them. She has a goal. I try to focus on it, care about it, steel myself to carry out her plan. I look around, see what she sees, notice what she finds important. It’s really a complex procedure, because every character is different, and each one is differently confronting a different circumstance in each scene. But it gets easier as the character moves deeper into the book, thank the Muse!

Slipping into male point-of-view is an experience all its own, and I have a special ritual to help me get there. No, it doesn’t involve a couch, a flat screen TV, a remote, and a beer. But it does take place on a recliner, where I can stretch out and feel longer and leaner than I am. Eyes closed, I count down slowly from ten to zero and imagine myself morphing into a manly man.

Starting with the feet (large, of course), I feel what it’s like to have big feet with short-clipped nails and hard soles. From there, I work my way north, pausing at each relevant spot to transform my soft female flesh into "his" body. I flex my firm, hairy calves. My muscled thighs. My taut, well-shaped buttocks. Never mind the naughty bits. They’re distracting, and I’m trying to focus here!

Flat, six-pack abdomen. Yeah, all my heros are buff in an athletic, non-bodybuilder way. Great chest, either smooth or hairy (but never ape-like). Fab pecs. Wide shoulders. It’s important to get that sense of formidable size, because I’m pretty short and decidedly unformidable. A man enters a room with a different perspective. He uses his body, especially if it is powerful, in a different way.

Sculpted biceps and forearms. Big hands, callused from hard work. Or long-fingered, graceful hands. Strong jawline, smooth-shaven or stubbly. I feel it all, feel the body and the presence and the attitude. I start to hear his thoughts, which means I hear his "voice"–quite different from the words and sentence structure used by the female protagonist.

And somewhere along the way, I’m across the chasm and into the scene, inhabiting the body and mind of the male who is entering the scene as well. Except that he gets to come alive, and I have to raise up the recliner and start typing.

Ah . . . The Sea (Patricia Potter)

"I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea’s face and a gray dawn breaking."

"I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied. . . "

John Masefield’s poem is my very favorite and has been since 10th Grade English. I’ve always felt the call of the sea, and when I get within a few miles of water, I go on automatic. Whether by foot or car or bus or train, I’m going to head straight for it.

Living in land-locked Memphis, my opportunities to be lured by the sea are limited. I satisfy myself with glimpses of the Mississippi and an occasional two hour voyage on a river boat, but this is something less than satisfactory.

When I visit some place on the ocean, I gravitate to the nearest boat, ship, tug, ferry, beach, or any other place where I can gaze out to sea.

So my recent trip to Novelists Inc., in San Diego, was somewhat problematic. Sessions – some very good sessions, indeed – or the sea?

I’m afraid the sea won.

I did sit in on a morning session by a creativity coach, then could stand it no longer. Down to the ships I went with a friend. There was a two-hour harbor cruise ready to go. Okay. Maybe I would get it out of my system and enjoy the rest of the conference.

‘Twas rather chilly, but I loved every single second of it. I listened spell-bound to the tour guide about every small detail of the bay and the Navy ships anchored there. I rejoiced in every gust of wind, and every cry of a sea bird.

I grieved when it was over, but leaving I saw a sign for a whale watching trip the next day.

Yep, you guessed it. Four whole hours on the sea. I signed up with the same friend. It was freezing but we stayed out on deck when everyone else fled inside. The sea was gray, and there were no whales, but there were sea birds, and seals perched on buoys and a school of porpoises, and I was a very happy sailor.

Time to go to work, to return to the hotel and listen to people who would help by craft and my business savvy.

That’s when I saw an advertisement for a "adventure" trip on a tall ship. A sailing adventure aboard a replica of a 1860's revenue ship. Three hours working the sails and the braces. All my good intentions rushed from my mind and yes, I bought a ticket and was there well before the required time.

I’ve taken several windjammer cruises in my younger days and they were the best trips I ever had. I helped with the sails, took turns at the wheel, slept on the deck and swigged rum punches while the sails billowed in the wind and the crew played "Born Free" on calypso drums. I proudly say I was the only who did not get sick.

I truly love sailing ships. There is something about the absence of the smell and sound of engines that frees your spirit. You have only the sounds of the sea: the slap of waves against the hull, the occasional flap of a sail, the cries of gulls as they beg for any tidbit you might offer them. They are all intoxicating to me. They free my mind from all concerns, all worries.

Alas, it is now the last day of the conference. I see an ad for a cruise on an America Cup ship, but it is too late. It’s already gone for the day, and I’m leaving in the morning.

I put it on the list for next time.

I’ve attended precious few conference sessions, though I’ve had some time to see old friends. Not enough time, and I regret that. But the sea has restored my spirits and my creative juices as much as hours inside a hotel conference room. And yes, I can justify some of it as research for a sea-faring book. I keep telling myself that.

When I was a reporter at the Atlanta Journal, one of the editors once told me he was taking his brother to the coast. His brother was dying and that was where he wanted to go. He mused that the ocean is from whence we came, and there seems to be something in many of us that draw back to it in an almost mystical way.

I’m a shining example of that theory. Because of family, I’ve been unable to migrate to a place alongside the sea, but one of these days . . .

In the meantime, I’ll grab any chance I can to savor every salt-tinged moment I can.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that on the last night of the conference I attended a St. Patrick’s Day concert by the San Diego Pops Orchestra. It featured a magnificent Irish tenor (did I mention before that the Irish Tenors and the Celtic Women are my favorite artists?), an Irish folk singer and Irish dancers. If I could possibly feel any better after my hours at sea, the concert accomplished that.

So here I am back in Memphis. Session-less but content. And if I can’t be by the sea, Memphis will do at this time of year. It’s at its best. In just the five days I’ve been gone, it’s been transformed. Azaleas and flowering trees are blooming. Young tender leaves are turning trees green. Color is everywhere, and the 80's temperatures are alluring.

But still . . . I already yearn for the sea again, for the lonely sea and the sky.

Just Stuff

I love my life. So this is just going to be a happy type blog. =) No bitching today. Well, maybe just a little. But first, great stuff. I have dear friends who are moving from Michigan to Salem Mass. I was their halfway point, and they came and stayed with me last night, before hitting the road this morning. It was wonderful. We talked and ate and laughed, and I got to meet the parents, and it was wonderful. And now I have a standing invitation for free lodging in Salem, next time I visit there. And I LOVE visiting there. =) So that was just a blessing. And they loved my house, and reminded me how much I love it too.

Today I get to hang out with grandkids. Ella (9) and Tanner (6) have a half day of school today, and the babysitter pooped out and mom and dad both are at work, so I'm picking them up at 11:30 and bringing them home for the day. That's going to be a blast.

Something not so good happened too. My firstborn cracked up her car this morning. She phoned in, said she was okay and the car was being towed, and she had a ride to work, but might need a ride home. If she does, I'm going to take the kids with me to go pick her up later this afternoon. She sounded real shaken, poor thing. I know how upsetting accidents are. It really rattles you. I hope she's really okay.

But back to good stuff. It's supposed to hit 60 degrees here today. The sun is shining, and it's already 40. The birds outside are signing their brains out, and it's such a happy sound it just makes me smile. So I'm in a very very good mood today and counting all my blessings.

It's a good practice.

Hugs,
Maggie

The Power Of Friendship (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I sit here this morning facing the worst crisis of my life and wondering how I can ever find something to say to any of you that you actually want to here - wondering how I can find anything to say that brings hope to hopeless hearts. I almost sink into the hopelessness, and then a smiling face appears in my vision. A phone call from yesterday pops into my brain, and I know, once again, I've discovered the secret to all of living - love. In the midst of losing all the love in my life, I find that there is other love out there, waiting to come to me.

It's been ten days now since my only child, a daughter I was with 24/7 for the first seventeen years of her life, has refused to speak to me. I wake up in the morning with a darkness so great I can hardly get myself out of bed. The other two people I'm closest to have also left my life - and all three of these members of my immediate family are bonded together, presumably forming a new kind of family. Bonded in their mutual despair. A despair I caused. Not knowingly. Not through anything as easily recognizable as criminal activity. Or overt immorality, given the circumstances. I had no idea choices I made would hurt my loved ones as they did. And I have no way to unmake those choices. This is the price we pay, the consequences we pay, when we mis-step. We are faced with something we can't fix.

And even now, when the universe could exact heavy revenge against me, I am sent angels of mercy, of love. While the one I thought to be my closest friend stabs my back, I am called by two other friends, told in no uncertain terms that I must come to them, that I must be surrounded by those who have known me far longer than that best friend did - those who still know me. They remind me that I acted with a good and open heart. That I meant no harm. That I tried my best - always try my best - to serve those I love. That life is confusing and we aren't meant to make it through without mis-steps. Perfection is not an attainable goal in this lifetime. I have lived decades, giving all of myself to those I love and that speaks of me far more than any single action can. And then they send me back to my life, to take my next steps. And they call me. They thank ME for spending time with them. In that one sentence, I found the value in myself that I had lost. One simple sentence from a friend of many years. In my worse moment, she found gratitude in simply being with me. This is the power of friendship.

Love comes in other areas, too. My extended family is there, offering love and support, unconditional love and support. Letting me know that I will never be alone. One of the three immediate family members calls. And we realize that a bond of love exists that we'd lost sight of. And an old college friend dries my tears, again and again, refusing to let me give in, reminding me to keep my eyes focused on long term to give time the opportunity to work it's healing powers. The future is waiting for me - full of unknown promise - and as long as I continue to get up in the morning, continue to breathe, it will find me.

The darkness was still there when I woke this morning. I know that it will continue to be my companion in the days to come. But there is brightness and light there, too. And hope for tomorrow. Because I am alive. I've loved. I will continue to love. And I have been reminded that the universe always gives love back. No matter who you are. Or what you've done.

It's Raining Covers (Suzanne Forster)

I just got a cover too! It’s for my May release, The Arrangement, and even though it took a few tries for the art department to get it right, I love the final result. The original version had a classic gothic mansion, which was ultimately—and magically--transformed into a three-story Mediterranean manse, where all manner of sins and secrets are buried. I was actually torn when I saw the first version—the gothic house on the cliffs, shrouded in ocean mists and lit by a moon in full. It was beautiful and moody and all the things we associate with gothic dwellings, but I’d already done my share of gothic mansions, and since I’d written this entire book with a Mediterranean mansion in mind, I asked them to make the change, and they did, beautifully.

The Arrangement was a story I never expected to write. I probably shouldn’t be sharing this because I’ve never shared it with the powers that be, but what the heck. I came up with idea several years ago and was immediately thrilled with the concept and the twist—a marriage of convenience that results in a woman accused of her own murder? I could hardly wait to get started on the story, but I was between contracts, in the midst of changing agents and publishing houses at the same time, and instead of going to contract with The Arrangement, it became the proposal that I sent to prospective agents.

The agents I queried responded with surprising enthusiasm, each of them offering to represent me, but the one I eventually went with asked if I had something bigger in scope, still suspenseful, but with more of a women’s fiction feel. She wanted a “big book” to show prospective publishers. I pitched her an idea stored only in my head at that time. It involved three prominent women, one of whom was the First Lady, who became suspects in a murder committed twenty years ago when they were poor scholarship students at an exclusive boarding school. It ultimately became The Lonely Girls Club, and resulted in a three-book contract with Mira Books.

Writing The Lonely Girls Club was challenging, but I loved every second of the process, right up until I saw the final product. The package, as they call it in publishing, was a bit of a shock. The cover art was striking and the back blurb compelling, but there was no hint of a romance there, no mention of a hero. The story actually has a piping hot romance, but you would never have known it from this package. Not that the cover wasn’t gorgeous. It was, but I was worried about my readers, the ones who’d been with me from the very first book. I hoped they would trust me enough to try it. What else could I do? And to my everlasting gratitude, they must have, because The Lonely Girls Club did very well.

For the next book, I geared my thinking toward more of the same—a big story with lots of scope and mainstream elements. I came up with an idea I loved called The Private Concierge, but then I got word from my editor that they needed a new proposal quickly. I realized The Private Concierge wouldn’t be ready in time, so I dusted off The Arrangement and sent it in, thinking they would probably say no, but it would buy me some time to finish TPC. To my great surprise (I’m surprised a lot, can you tell?), they green-lighted The Arrangement immediately, despite the fact that its scope is limited to a man and woman engaged in the eternal war between heart and head, known and unknown, trust and fear. Yes, the physical attraction between them is palpable, lives are at stake and sanity suffers, but the story itself is deliciously intimate, in my opinion, from beginning to end.

It goes like this: A woman awakens from a coma, wed to the man of her dreams, but living in a nightmare. He’s tall, dark and wealthy—every woman’s fantasy—except for the shocking arrangement he insists upon, one that my heroine cannot refuse. She is trapped in a marriage with a man whose past is spoken of only in whispers. Worse, he despises her, or so she believes, yet can’t keep his hands off her. And the attraction is mutual. She lies awake at night, next to him, afraid to breathe for fear of giving herself away.

In short, The Arrangement is about a marriage of convenience with a deadly twist, a dark, intimate, sexy and scary tale in the extreme—and perhaps the opposite of what I thought was expected of me for the second book of my contract. Fortunately for everyone concerned, my editor loved it, and it’s exactly the kind of book I love to write, so I was thrilled.

And for me, there was another bonus. The entire process so far has been a lesson learned. Go with your bliss. Do what you love in life—and most of all, don’t assume. If there hadn’t been a need to move quickly, I might never have submitted The Arrangement for consideration, assuming that it wouldn’t be what they wanted. So, whoever in his or her infinite wisdom came up with that great advice must have had me in mind.

Suz

Ninc at Nite (Lynn Kerstan)

The aftermath of a writers conference is mostly a blur. We all learn too much to remember. We do too much, eat too greedily, party too hard, sleep too little. There isn’t enough time for all the friends, the activities, the opportunities.

Pat, Tara, and I had hoped to post lively, entertaining pieces live from last week’s Novelists, Inc., conference in San Diego. Didn’t happen. Oh, we took lots of pictures. Made lots of notes. But the one thing lacking at this writers conference was time to write.

Not counting Tara, who was nearly always closeted in her room with her nearly-due book. For her, this was a true writer's retreat. Pat spent so much time on boat trips of various kinds that U.S. Navy recruiters were giving her the eye. As a lowly-but-busy member of the conference staff, I ran interference, errands and a chauffeur service.

Let it be said, though, that a StoryBroad’s priorities are always in place. Nothing, but nothing, impeded our ongoing search for the World’s Best Onion Rings. And we’ll soon get around to posting pictures and highlights from the Ninc Conference.

But this morning, after the first good night’s sleep in a week, all I can remember clearly is . . . the hotel’s bathrooms. In all my travels, I’ve never seen anything quite like them. A good chunk of the 53 million dollars spent renovating the U.S. Grant Hotel was clearly dedicated to creating those lavish loos.

I have stayed in hotel rooms smaller than the shower in our bathroom. Heck, the bedroom in my apartment should be the size of that shower! Apparently designed for communal bathing experiences, it featured a marble bench in one corner that was well out of water’s reach. Meant for an audience, I suppose.

Rarely have I been intimidated by plumbing, but the display of fixtures required considerable analysis. Six gleaming metal rectangles–some high, some middling, some low--were set in the dusky-pink marble wall. Each contained 64 little holes, and the rectangles could be adjusted to send sprays just about any direction. When they all got going, the experience was like standing in the midst of a gentle waterfall.

I spent a lot of time in that shower, but not for the bathing. And not for observing anyone else! It was the acoustics, and the sound of my voice when I sang in that enclosure, that enraptured me. Really, I sounded like some other singer altogether. A good one. If I am reincarnated, I want the voice I heard in that shower.

On Saturday night, because my room-mate had a 5am call to catch her plane, I stayed in a conference suite with an even more astonishing W.C. In addition to a glass-walled shower–a little kinky, if you ask me–this one featured something called an Infinity Tub. We’d had a large gathering in the suite that night, a conference wind-up experience, and every single one of us made a trek down the hall to see that tub.

At 2am, alone at last, I thought it my duty to experience Infinity and relate the story to my less fortunate fellow writers. Easier said than done. The enormous tub-within-a-tub had every sort of device imaginable. I was afraid to touch any one of them. Then I saw, on the wall, an elegantly framed list of instructions. Job one–turn the plug to the right.

I couldn’t reach the plug. Did I mention this tub was deep? It occurred to short, chunky me that if it was filled to its Infinity-pool mode, I’d need a straw to breath. With considerable effort, I climbed over the towering sides (two, with a trough in between) and spent the next ten minutes trying to get that plug to do its plugging job.

Oaths reverberated around the room. Finally I decided that even though the plug persisted in protruding, it might perhaps have caught hold in the nether regions. Surely nothing so high-tech as this tub would be stymied by a chunk of metal.

Back to the instructions. I identified the metal handle responsible for admitting water to the tub and turned it. Then I let out a yelp. From the ceiling (!) descended a single hard column of water. That’s so wrong. Using a ceiling to fill a bathtub is an overly conspicuous display of faux opulence. I’m just saying.

Anyway, down the water streamed. And out the tub it drained.

I gave up. Out I went. To the bar I crossed. A glass of wine I drank.

I had flunked Bathtub 101. No Infinity for me.

Reality Versus Regular TV (Suzanne Forster)

Are there any other reality TV fans out there? I've was going to post about my reality TV addiction as a secret vice, but as long as I've outed myself, I may as well admit that I still watch way too much reality programming, although I'm getting more discriminating, so there's hope for me yet. There was a time when the dh was searching the Yellow Pages for self-help groups for reality TV watchers. True story!

I still watch Survivor, The Amazing Race, American Idol (is that considered reality programming?) and several others. My true guilty pleasure is The Girls Next Door, which airs on E! at mysterious times, so I can never quite keep up with it. It's the show that's shot at the Playboy Mansion and stars Hef's three current girlfriends, Holly, Bridget and Kendra.

It's amazingly fun to watch, and I have no idea why. You could never call me a fan of Hefner's or the Playboy philosophy. In fact, I can remember protesting his magazine in my feminist days in college, but this show has a charm I can't quite explain. It focuses on the women and their efforts to run the mansion, hostess various events, and keep Hef entertained, which is actually a fairly simple matter these days. He's in bed by nine, and it appears he's there to sleep, lol. There are no sexy romps to be seen, unless it's the women posing together for the magazine, and only one of them is actually his girlfriend, so it's pretty tame fare, all in all, compared to what might have been expected. Still, he's amazingly spry for eightyish. We should all be so with it.

So, how about you? Do you prefer reality or regular TV? And what are your favs of the current programming?

Suz

Coincidence? Maggie Shayne

Nobody has blogged yet for Saturday--we have a lot going on. Some bloggers are at NINC, one is in the hospital, but we hear doing fine, and another is having computer problems. So once again, I'm jumping in with something I hope you find interesting.

Here is the new cover art for the reissue of two of my immortal Witch books from Berkley, ETERNITY and INFINITY. (This comes out in November in trade size.) I adore the cover art--doesn't the model look like Liv Tyler?--but it looked awfully similar to some of my MIRA reissues. I checked just to be sure I wasn't imagining it, and here you go.
This is the cover art for the reissue of two of my vampire novels from MIRA, also done in trade size. It was released in 2002. We're thinking the two were done by the same artist.

I love that the artist's vision of my work and my covers is so consistent, and I love that's it such a romantic and beautiful vision, because it's one I absolutely love. It's kind of how I envision it myself, actually. So the artist is right on the money here. However, we don't want to confuse the readers, and Berkley is a fabulously above board company, so they're going back to work on the cover to make it more distinctly different from the earlier one. I'm sure I'll still love it.

But I found the whole thing very very interesting and being the kind of "woo-woo" person I am, I'm now wondering if there's something about the art, or the artist, that carries a message of some sort that I'm supposed to be getting.

I'm open to ideas. And I'll post the real, final cover when it arrives.

MAggie

A Gathering of Kindred Spirits


There is nothing like a writers’ conference to convince me I’m not as strange,or as lazy, or incompetent I feared. The meeting of Novelists Inc. in San Diego this week is invaluable because we all discover that what everyone else thinks is odd about me is the norm among most of us.

First of all, Novelists Inc. is an organization of published authors of fiction. We write in all genres, and the reason for being is networking with other authors as well advocating for our interests. It holds an annual conference. and three of the StoryBroads are attending.

One common trait of authors is extreme insecurity. We often think, because we are alone in our writing, that we are the only ones suffering from such trauma. We have trouble with a passage and we think our careers are ruined. The magic doesn’t come early in a book, and we consider ourselves frauds. A less than steller review sends us to the depths of despair.

One conference session conducted by Eric Maisel, renown creativity coach, revealed we all have deep doubts about our abilities and profession. Many of us admitted to finding ourselves in dark places. We feel that when a passage is not working, we’re imposters, only pretending to be writers. We panic, and that stops the process.

It’s amazing to sit in a room and realize how many others share the insecurity. It happens to all of us. Sometimes the magic doesn’t happen. The characters never completely come to life. It’s not a failure, though, we are reassured. It's part of the creative process

Most of us can never admit it in public. Instead we fret and worry and torture ourselves that we have lost “it.” But the reality, our speaker says, is that a shelf full of books is eventually going to include a bad one. Depressing news, but also cleansing.

Heads nod across the room. Knowing looks are exchanged. It’s ever so hard to admit that all your babies are not beautiful and perfect. But nearly everyone had felt that tug in the heart that a book was not all they had wanted and hoped it would be. Then comes that glorious moment when everything works.

Okay, so I’ll try not to kick myself quite so vehemently on occasion.

And then, of course, there is the procrastination. Once more, I thought I was the only one. Instead, I found myself in a room of chronic procrastinators. There is nothing finer than discovering you are not alone.

Most, including myself, have tales of burying themselves in email and blogs and anything else to keep from writing, then, faced with disaster, engage in marathon dashes to the end.

I don’t know how many times my family asks why I wait until the last minute before deadline, then write around the clock for three weeks straight until I’m a Zombie. I promise to do better on the next book, but it never happens.

I thought it my own slothfulness until more than half a room of writers reported the same behavior. Obviously it is not laziness because all of us produce one, two, three or more books a year. It’s liberating to know it’s a good thing to go with the rhythms that actually work for us, and if that means procrastination for whatever reasons, then an intense around-the-clock work fest, so be it.

“Most people don’t understand what it’s like to be a writer,” Eric Maisel said. “Your lifestyle doesn’t fit theirs.”

“We are talking about process and giving yourself the right to do it the way it works for you,” he continued. And everyone nods, or at least most of us. Enough for me to realize I’m not as alone as I thought I was.

My well is filling. I'm getting excited about writing again. Back to the book and a writing marathon. It's going to work. It's really going to work.

Batten Down the Hatches! Maggie Shayne

I'm jumping in today because several of our bloggers are out of town, though I know they'll post when they can. I thought I'd fill the space in between with a tiny rant.

I'm supposed to get a blizzard today.

Yep, she who's been predicting an early spring (and still believes it) is about to get dumped on. It's a nor'easter, folks, and it's supposed to begin in my neck of the woods around noon today (Friday) and continue overnight, leaving a total of 10 to 18 inches of white stuff in its wake. And it's almost the Vernal Freaking Equinox for the love of heaven!

This does not in any way negate my prediction of an early spring. It was in the 60's here last Wednesday, and by this coming Thursday it'll be in the 50's again. So spring IS coming. This snow storm will probably be far less menacing than the weathermen are saying (drama sells commercials after all) and it will all melt within a day or two anyway. It'll be like it never happened. IF it happens at all. I predict a dusting to two inches, all melting during the course of Saturday.

So let it be written, so let it be done!

I'll pop into the commnt area with storm updates for anyone who wants to follow along as I'm proven right (or wrong, as unlikely as that is.)

Maggie

Nut Magnet Disorder & Roadtrips, Maggie Shayne

I had a lovely day in Manhattan with my agent on Tuesday. Of course, getting there wasn't easy. The plan was for me to go in on Monday, spend the day Tuesday and come home Wedensday morning. (It's a bit of a haul, but not a terrible one.) But with me, you know, things tend to happen. I guess I expect them to, so I'm probably drawing them in. I didn't want all the fuss of flying for a short trip like that, so I booked train tickets, because I hate buses.

The first snafu was when the train exploded. Okay, not MY train, but A train. A freight train hauling propane blew to smitherenes Monday morning. No one was injured, thank goodness. All rail service was suspended. My ticket was cancelled.

Ooookay. So off I trot to my computer to book a ::shudder:: bus ticket. Got one, quite easily, but the rules stated I had to pick it up in person no later than one hour before departure at the Grayhound station in Cortland--which is the worst bus station in the universe. It's a tiny building with a waiting room, a desk, and an office in the back. Their posted hours are 8 to 5. I phoned over there for hours, but no answer. Finally, I just drove there with my bags, but there was no one around and the place was locked up. I was worried. I figured the bus would stop because it was on the schedule, and Grayhound does what it says it will do. The station isn't theirs, it's independently owned. Anyway, I waited, and about 20 minutes before the bus was supposed to get there, someone finally showed up. But she couldn't help me right away. She had to walk her dog first. Left me sitting in the parking lot in my car, waiting.

Finally, she returned, dog in tow, and unlocked the building. Took her all of about a minute to get me a ticket. Relieved, I waited for the bus to arrive, and it did, and I was off. But about the time we hit the major traffic heading into the Lincoln tunnel, the bus door decided to open, thrusting itself out into the right lane, which was bumper to bumper. The driver had to pull over to mess with it. Of course it continued flying open all the way through the tunnel, and I was sure another car would clip it and we'd end up in a major accident. No one did, though. The driver was asking if anyone had any rope. I was thinking if one of my fellow travelers had brought rope along, I didn't particularly want to know about it. "Yeah, I've got rope, sir. It's right here with my duct tape and hefty bags." Yikes.

We arrived an hour late. I walked from the Port Authority to the hotel, about 11 blocks, and I had my laptop in my backpack, which made it too heavy. I developed a wrinkle in the sole of my shoe, right under my heel, and by the time I got to the hotel I had a blister. My agent was delayed, so I wound up spending the night alone in my room, raiding the mini-bar. I watched Happy Feet on TV to cheer myself up.

Tuesday was much better. Eileen arrived in the morning. We had a lovely lunch, walked a lot, surfed the net together, discussed career plans and promotions and so on. We saw the best show on Broadway that night: The Drowsy Chaperone, which has won 6 Tony Awards. I just absolutely loved it. After that we had dinner at Ruby Foo's, a fantastic Asian restaurant with decor to die for. And all was well.

Then came Wednesday and the return trip. I went to the bus station to await my ride. I was sitting in the waiting area when a man dressed completely in camo (though clearly not military) came and plunked down right next to me, though there were plenty of empty seats. And he stared at me. Just stared. And I'm sorry, but he smelled. It was a very potent and unusual aroma, and I knew I had smelled it before. He smelled just like the homeless lady I had brought home with me when I was seven. I made my mom let her stay for dinner, and then asked if I could keep her.

I didn't want to be rude, but I decided to get up and move. I made it look innocent, though, by going to the restroom, and then buying a bottle of water.

Finally I get on the bus. At the only rest stop, the driver informed us we would have precisely ten minutes to get our food, and get back to our seats. So everyone's in a hurry. And the first guy in line at Mickey D's can barely speak a word of English and has no idea what to order. He was trying to ask for chicken soup, I think, which of course, they didn't have. He then decided on Fries, but when asked what size, he replied "One." I had to step in--no one else was helping him. I did my best, and he wound up with a small order of fries and a cookie. I have no idea if that was what he really wanted, but it was the closest I could come to interpreting for him. I have no idea what language he was speaking. Maybe a middle eastern dialect of some sort.

Well, after that, I ordered my food, and went to the restroom while they made it, and when I came out he was waiting for me. Walked back to the bus with me. As we continued our journey, he tried to converse all the way back, asking "how old you?" and "You babies?" and "You marry?" (I'm not sure if that was a proposal, but it was starting to look that way, because he started blowing me kisses at that point.) Then he wanted to change seats to sit in the empty one next to me. It was getting way too friendly. And despite that he guessed my age to be twenty or twenty-five, earning him brownie points--or maybe he just didn't know English numbers--I wasn't ready for a lifetime committment. I finally conveyed that I was tired, and pretended to sleep for the rest of the ride, praying he wasn't going to get off the bus at the deserted and unmanned bus station where I had left my car.

He didn't. We hit rain, then fog as thick as peanut butter. I got off the bus alone, and my car was there waiting to greet me. Then I rushed home to my longsuffering dogs (Sally stayed with my firstborn, while Wrinkles stayed home and my secondborn tended to her.) They missed me so much! I picked up Sally and got home and it felt sooooooo to good sink into my own sofa and relax.

I'm not a great traveler. Road trips, where I do the driving are really my forte. Mass transit of any kind doesn't go well. I don't know if I seem approachable or what, but if there's a nut or a needy traveler on my plane, train or bus, they always gravitate straight to me. I remember one time on a bus with my friend Laurie (aka "Bugs) when we got off to smoke (back when we both did) and a man made a beeline for us and said, "I am soooo happy I kiss thee ground! I just get out of prison today! Sixteen years!" Another time I was at a fast food joint on the way to somewhere, when a man who was stuggling with a job application scanned the faces of every patron, before settling on me and asking "What's the date today?" And I told him and he said, "What's the year?" and I told him, and then he asked "How do you spell burglary?"

It never fails. Troubled people love me. What the heck is up with that?

How Stange is She? (Suzanne Forster)

I was insulted by my horoscope today. I suppose I should take it with a grain of salt since I’m not really a big believer in horoscopes. In fact, the rational side of my brain keeps insisting that the whole alignment of stars thing makes no sense. How could the date of my birth have anything to do with my personality? Or influence the very trajectory of my life? And yet, every morning when I open the L.A. Times, I find myself magically drawn to the entertainment section, and it’s not to do the crossword. Yes, the tv guide is in that section, too, and I like to check out the prime time shows, lest I miss Idol or Grey’s Anatomy or Men in Trees. But if I’m being honest, I’m really there to take a peek at my horoscope. I read it religiously and find myself pondering whatever message might be hidden in the words, and how it might apply to my life. I’ve also noticed if it’s positive I’m much more likely to give it credence and read it over a few times. If it’s negative, I’ll remind myself that horoscopes are silly, and I should stick to the tv guide.

Normally though, it’s something pretty uplifting, or, if not that, at least it’s mildly amusing. Michael Lutin in Vanity Fair can be witheringly negative about all the signs, but at least he’s funny about it. In the April issue of the magazine, he chides Virgos, which happens to be my sign, for being overly sensitive lately, claiming that ever since the solar eclipse took place in our solar 7th house, we’ve been racked by feelings of rejection and in need of others to bolster our shaky egos.

Note to self: Why do I keep reading this guy?

Generally speaking, I like my astrology positive without being over the top. I remember Joyce Jillson fondly, but she was a bit too bubbly for me. On the other hand, one astrologer I read years ago was a purveyor of doom. He used to issue dire warnings about not getting on the roads that day, which is a lovely thing to have on your mind when you’re rushing around getting ready to speak at the local library, or even just a day of running errands. Another of his favorites was to suggest that you should see a doctor as soon as possible. I had to stop reading him. I never would have left the house except to go to the doctor.

So, maybe I’m a closet believer? Or is it just part and parcel of my superstitious nature? But, I digress. This is supposed to be about today’s horoscope, which actually said I was the strangest person on the planet. Even Lutin hasn’t gone that far. Yet.

Strange, maybe. Stranger than some? Well, okay. Maybe even stranger than many. But the strangest person on the planet? What did I do to deserve that honor?

I may be a little off-kilter, but I wouldn’t call it extreme. I read magazines from back to front because the best stuff is always in the back. If you don’t believe me, pick up a Time magazine one of these days. My friends refer to me as calendar-challenged, and I do have a bad habit of hoarding time. For example, if I write a check in the grocery store on the 21st, the next time I’m there, no matter how many days have passed, I figure it must be the 22nd, or at the very most, the 23rd, when in fact, an entire week or more may have passed. Eventually I realized that I do this to slow down time and keep book deadlines at bay.

Note to self: It doesn’t work.

I have a couple phobias, but they’re pretty normal. I’m terrified of enclosed MRIs, crawl spaces and anything close enough to my face to cut off my breathing, which is really just self-preservation, after all. And crawl spaces are only cool if you know for a certainty that you are the only thing crawling in them, which is almost NEVER the case.

Just so you know I didn’t make up today’s horoscope, here it is:

“Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). You're brilliantly unique, and others can't figure you out. It's as if, of all the billions and billions of life forms on the earth, you're the very strangest. Don't bother trying to explain yourself. A wink will do just fine.”

Okay, really, billions and billions of life forms, and I’m the strangest? Have you seen any amoebas lately? They’re pretty strange, as far as life forms go. And what about Michael Jackson or Andy Warhol?

It also said brilliantly unique though, which is kind of cool. Of course, that also goes for the 874 million other Virgos currently taking up space on the planet. So much for unique. But wait, there’s still brilliant. Am I grasping at straws here? LOL.

Maybe Michael Lutin’s right. Maybe I’m one of those too-sensitive Virgos, which would explain why I’m staying off the roads and waiting with bated breath for the solar eclipse to get its nasty self out of my solar 7th house. And meanwhile, I’m so glad I don’t really believe in horoscopes. Otherwise, I’d be in danger of developing an eye twitch from all that winking.

Have you checked your horoscope yet today? I hope it was better than mine!

Suz

The Ides of March (Anne Stuart)

So, while everyone is off in sunny San Diego, having fun at the Novelists Inc. conference, I get to go under the knife. Sometimes life just isn't fair. I was looking forward to a fabulous three weeks of LTD (better known as Living the Dream). I was going down to the New England Chapter conference outside of Boston, there to be wined and dined and see old friends, then go off and spend the night with Barbara Keiler (Judith Arnold) and Barbara Samuel (Ruth Wind), aka the Good Barbara and the Bad Barbara. We were going to eat Japanese food and go to a quilt store and talk and talk, then I was going to hop on a train and go stay in Greenwich Village with Jenny Crusie, where we would drink wine and talk about writing and fiber arts and buy Eileen Fisher clothes and funky jewelry and plan our trip to Australia and basically have a fabulous writerly time. Then back up to Boston and the popular culture conference where people throw out words like dystopia and post-modern with reckless abandon (they even had a fat woman track, god knows why) and then back up here.

But noooooo. All that's out the window, because I have to go under the knife on the Ides of March. I'm not sure if I'll have as many slashes as Julius Caesar did, and I'll be getting staples, not bleeding to death, and my surgeon won't have to fall on his sword unless he really annoys me.

But let me tell you, I am Not in the Mood for this.

I should be having deliciously happy times. I just wrote one of my most favorite books of all time. Another absolute favorite is just about to appear on the newsstands:

(Shameless plug here -- the last week of March is the perfect time to pick up this absolutely delightful book and help put me on the New York Times list again. I'm envisioning number 28.)

I loved this book, but then, I have a sneaking fondness for all my books. If you're looking for a place holder for Taka O'Brien you could choose any J-rocker in a butch mode, or Takeshi Kaneshiro. Lots of luscious men out there, all ready to make a guest appearance in my fantasies, god bless 'em.

In the meantime, I'll be laid up with a very sore tummy. Yup, it's the old female troubles surgery, so the rest of you will just have to play nice without me for a couple of weeks. In the meantime I've got a stack of books (Eloisa James, the new JR Ward, the last book in Tales of the Otori by Lian Hern, Dragon Lovers by Jo Beverley, Karen Harbaugh, Mary Jo Putney and Barbara Samuel, two of the Tara Janzen books that I happen to miss, and I'll watch tons of movies.

As I informed my long-suffering husband and children, for the next two months it's officially All About Me time.

Anyone got some great suggestions for books and movies to while away my time as an invalid? I intend to recline on the couch and look pale and interesting while everyone waits on me and brings me Tab and cookies.

So give me some suggestions for fabulous movies or books I might have missed along the way.

And keep a few good thoughts heading my way for the Ides of March.