INSOMNIA AND TV(Anne Stuart)

Grrrrr. I'm a morning person. I like to wake up before everyone else is up and have the house to myself. It's like stolen time that no one knows exists. One of the best places to be is New York City at that hour, when a few people are out walking their dogs but it's before people have to rush to work. It's magic hour. The city's just about empty.
And I've had insomnia on and off for the last few months, and it's been much worse since my surgery. So basically I'm too tired to do anything at night, and then I sleep through my favorite time and wake up punch drunk and grumpy.
I find I'm whining a lot. People ask me how I'm feeling and I always tell them, when they probably don't really want to know. But then, I even answer store clerks when they ask me if I'm having a nice day. I tend to share far too much with the world.

We been talking about our favorite tv shows, and god bless TIVO (or the Dish Network version of it) because otherwise I would be hopelessly screwed. But here are my must-see tivo'd shows for the week.
Monday -- 24 (no matter how weak it is this year) and Heroes. Unfortunately I want to watch Dancing with the Stars, even though I avoid reality shows unless it's Project Runway, but Apolo Anton Ohno is just so damned cute. So I go over to my friend's house and watch it with her whild the other two shows tape.
Tuesday -- NCIS, House, Veronica Mars
Wednesday -- Jericho, Lost, Bones
Thursday -- CSI, Grey's Anatomy
Friday -- Stargate, Stargate Atlantis, Ghost Whisperer (though those are more for my husband)
Saturday -- absolutely nothing
Sunday -- Cold Case and the treat of the week: Blood Ties. Mind you I'm lusting after a beautiful young man who happens to be my daughter's age, but tant pis. I'll give him to one of my heroines and they'll have a lovely time together.

I'm looking forward to Eureka, The Closer, Project Runway, Dr. Who, and assorted other goodies that might pop up.

I've given up on Smallville, Gilmore Girls (though I'm lured back occasionally), Seventh Heaven, and I've never had the chance to get into Supernatural, which I think I'd like but it scared me the one time I tried to watch it (I'm such a wuss).

So, tell me what your favorite tv is? Am I missing an absolute treat? You'll notice there are just about zero sitcoms and reality tv -- I like mystery and strong characters. And reruns are coming up soon -- maybe it'll be time to check out somthing I missed first time around.

What are your favorite shows?

The Poetry of Our Lives

Poetry Month is drawing to a close . . . before most people even knew it was happening.

Not that we live without poetry these days. But instead of reading poems, we’re more likely to be listening to them in the lyrics of our music. And there’s some amazing poetry to be found there, whatever our taste, whatever themes most touch our hearts.

Are there song lyrics you especially love? Words that live inside you when the music has faded away? Tell us about them.

To get us started, here are some lyrics I discovered only yesterday. The wondrous Google found the words.

Once I Was
Once I was a soldier
And I fought on foreign sands for you
Once I was a hunter
And I brought home fresh meat for you
Once I was a lover
And I searched behind your eyes for you
And soon there'll be another
To tell you I was just a lie

And sometimes I wonder
Just for a while
Will you remember me

And though you have forgotten
All of our rubbish dreams
I find myself searching
Through the ashes of our ruins
For the days when we smiled
And the hours that ran wild
With the magic of our eyes
And the silence of our words

And sometimes I wonder
Just for a while
Will you remember me
Tim Buckley

Out of This World

When we die, we go into the arms of those who remember us
We are home now
Out of our heads, out of our minds, out of this world, out of this time
Are you drowning or waving? Just want you to save me...
Should we try to get along? Just try to get along
So we move... we change by the speed of the choices that we make
And the barriers are all self-made
All so retrograde...
Are you drowning or waving? Just need you to save me
Should we try to get along? Just try to get along...
I am alive, I'm awake to the trials and confusion we create
There are times when I feel the way we're about to break
But it's too much to say
We are home now, out of our heads... We're out of this time.
Bush (the group, not the Prez)

Sunday Funday

Today I'm posing a challenge. It's Sunday. So today I want everyone to make a vow to do one thing just for themselves. Just one little thing. Get a manicure or a massage. Take a walk. Or a nap. Treat yourself to a bag of Peanut M&Ms. Anything. Today, do something just for the fun of it, no matter how small. Something for YOU! Then pop in and tell us about it!

Rites of Spring (Lynn Kerstan)

In Coronado, we don’t have seasons. Although weather patterns change a bit, grass stays ever green, few trees go bare, and flowers of one sort or another are always in bloom.

But in March, a frenzy grips this "village" of 26,000 people. The annual judging of gardens is just weeks away. Pickup trucks carrying gardeners and equipment and flats of flowers roll into town.

At my apartment complex, thousands of Impatiens are planted. Shrubs are shaped, trees are spiffed up. By mid-April, nearly every lawn and garden is a showpiece. And by mid-April. many windows boast blue or red or white ribbons as a tribute to the citizens who beautify our community. My landlord got a blue ribbon, as he usually does.

This weekend there’s a flower show as well, with music, entertainment, and an art walk. But the best part, for me, is the annual Book Sale by the Friends of the Library.

Not that I need any more books! In fact, to make room for new additions, I have to haul books I already have down to the library and donate them to the sale. Just so I can go and buy new (used) ones.

Like other Friends of the Library, I’m admitted to the Preview Sale on Friday, which is how I spent yesterday afternoon. It’s the thrill of the hunt that calls to me, the instinct of the gatherer to join the harvest. And this year, the sale offered more than 75,000 books, not to mention music cds, tapes, audiobooks, and movies.

For once, I imposed some quite unnatural self-discipline. I would carry only two moderate-sized canvas bags. And I would walk to the park where the sale took place. No nearby car to stow my stash and go back for more. Whatever I bought would have to be lugged home.

By the time I got there, at least 200 people were already lined up. Some had brought pull carts, rolling suitcases, and even little red wagons. Competition for the Good Stuff would be fierce.
I headed first to the VCR tables, hoping to score some Sharpe’s Rifles episodes. None to be had, alas, although I found an audio book of Sharpe’s Escape. Healthier choice, really, because I only listen to audio books when I take long walks. I’ll miss looking at Sean Bean, though.

And I got a J.D. Robb audio book as well, which will be a treat. I also picked up VCRs of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Touring Scotland, and Touring Royal Castles and Stately Homes of England.

Then to music, but that section was a polite madhouse. I came away with two Sting cds, and tapes by Emmy Lou Harris, Judy Collins, and Simon & Garfunkel in Central Park. A blast from my past.

I also found a VCR called Basics for the Acoustic Guitar Player and a book (dating from 1959) of guitar chords. My guitar has been in its case since 1984, and I was always a lousy player. Most people didn’t notice because I sang good songs and have a loud voice. Back in the day, I helped pay for my education with singing gigs. Now, soon as I buy new strings and work up the nerve to get started, I mean to relearn some of the music I still love. Neighbors, beware!

I had resolved to buy no new fiction, what with a towering To-Be-Read Pile practically engulfing my small living space. But I couldn’t resist wandering through the section that must have held 50,000 paperbacks. Found a Susan Elizabeth Phillips I had somehow missed. Also a Loretta Chase. Couldn’t resist a couple other temptations as well. OK, several others.

Then the discovery of the third volume of a Carol Berg fantasy trilogy sent me on a long and futile hunt for volume two. Mind you, I’ve been reading volume one in fits and starts for the better part of a year. Love it, really, but I keep getting distracted with contest judging, teaching, and my own writing. Will finish it, I have promised myself, on the long flights to and from Memphis next month. And to that end, I ordered volume two from Amazon tonight.

Finally, I stopped by the travel section and got Fodor travel guides for Peru and Arizona. My current work-in-progress has important scenes set in both places, and there are lots of pesky details to be looked up.

I resisted a dozen wonderful books about England, for which I had a great lust but no place to put them. A wonderful book about the Incas was squeezed onto the last bit of space in my tote bags, leaving me no choice but to check out.

Let me tell you, trundling home with those heavy bags after three hours of crowded shopping was no treat. But I’m thrilled with my haul. And at a mere $31.50 for all these treasures, I made out like a bandit! Now I just have to find some place to stow everything I bought.

Cat Update: Relapse. Or should that be Catlapse? After nearly four days of apparently full recovery last week, Lymond is again having problems with his hind legs. We still don’t know what’s causing the trouble. Poor little guy. Send good thoughts his direction, please.

The Glory of Spring . . . and Gardening (Patricia Potter)

I come to gardening late.

My father loved tinkering in the garden. He indulged his roses, tended his many azaleas, planted and dearly loved troublesome but lovely Magnolia trees. He also had a magnificent vegetable garden that kept me in luscious home-grown tomatoes all summer.

While I admired his industry and appreciated its results, I couldn't imagine why he so happily spent hundreds of hours on his knees planting seeds and feeding his plants.

I understand now. I bought a house with a big empty yard because I dearly wanted a swimming pool. Of all activities in the world, I love swimming the most. I got my pool, but then I had nothing around it. In truth, part of my yard was a swamp.

I planted some crepe myrtles to give the yard some color, but I still had a swamp. Every rain, the grass gradually disappeared in a sea of mud. Okay, I thought. I'll turn the swamp into a flower garden. The plants would soak up the water.

The garden, shaded by the crepe myrtles, grew and grew. I became enchanted.

Have I mentioned I have a compulsive personality? If a few flowers are good, more are better. The garden grew. I discovered an unexpected joy in digging in the dirt, and adding more plants.

Then I adopted the Wild Indians – my Australian Shepherd sisters – who loved to dig holes under the fence. The only barrier to such activity, I found, was planting rose bushes where the holes were possible.

The behavior was corrected, but like a gambler, I couldn't stop adding. If a little color was good around the fence, more would be better.

Three weeks ago, I took a look at the non-garden parts of my yard. The Wild Indians had destroyed the grass. So for the past few weeks, I've been buying sod, carrying it to my back yard, and laying it, square by square.

Backbreaking work, but I found myself loving it. Love the exercise, but but even more I enjoyed seeing the green return to my yard, square foot by square foot, and I did it myself. Like Maggie, I found great satisfaction in doing something I'd previously depended on someone else to do.

The joy of Memphis is a long flower season. We had azaleas in bloom three weeks ago, along with flowering peach trees and Dogwoods. Now tulips and irises are everywhere. My roses are blooming. I just planted fifty multi-colored impatiens, and it's pure joy taking my coffee in their midst. My roses are thriving, and every week I find something else to add. By the end of summer, my yard will be fence-to-fence flowers.

I'm thinking now about a vegetable plot, but I hesitate. Like my flowers, I fear it will grow like Topsy's garden, and I'll never get to write again. So I'm resisting until I finish The Devil's Shadow.

And then . . .

But I'll tell you about that later. In the meantime, have any of you caught the gardening bug and if so, what most do you love to grow?

WILD THING, an interview with Maggie Shayne

This week, I'm posting an interview instead of a more traditional rambling stream of consciousness. =) My fellow authors in the new anthology WILD THING (on sale May 1) have each been interviewed about our stories in the collection. You can read their interviews at their blog sites, and there are links to each of them at the bottom of this piece.

Q. What is your favorite thing about writing a novella? What is your least favorite thing?

A. I love writing novellas. The length is perfect for me. I can focus on the heart of the story—the relationship, the emotions. Those are the best parts of any story, or any relationship for that matter. The feelings. I also like that I can get from start to finish in a couple of weeks, which allows me to write with that initial burst of creative energy from beginning to end. In longer books, that fire tends to wax and wane, and has to be constantly re-stoked to keep my passion for the story flowing.


Q. In honor of WILD THING, what is the wildest experience you've had as an author?

A. I’m glad you specified “as an author.” My truly wildest experiences are too wild to share in this forum. =) That said, as an author, I’ve had a couple of fun ones. There was the reader who came to my signing of “A Sprinkle of Fairydust” and liberally doused me in silver glitter. I was leaking glitter everywhere I walked for days, no matter how many showers I took. Then there was the booksigning where a gorgeous young man walked in and told me he was my long lost half brother. That was probably the wildest ever, and certainly the happiest!

Q. Why do you think readers will fall in love with your hero from this book? With your
heroine?

A. In “Animal Magnetism” Jay is a cop investigating a string of assaults against women. The most appealing thing (to me) about him is the tenderness and care with which he treats the victims of these crimes, and the depth of his caring for them. As for Macy, I think the most appealing thing about her is her past pain, and how closely she has guarded herself from being hurt again—and then the way she puts all of that aside and takes a huge risk in order to make Jay believe her, and help to solve the crimes.

Q. Just for fun, what is your favorite movie in the paranormal genre?

A. Practical Magic. No Question. Of course, as a working Witch, I’m slightly biased.


Q.. What are you working on now?

A. I’m currently writing LOVER’S BITE. Book two of a new four book contract with MIRA. All four books will be part of my ongoing (one might say “immortal”) vampire series known as Wings in the Night.

Q. . What comes out next for you?


DEMON’S KISS (book 1 of the above contract) in December.
MOON FEVER (A St. Martin’s Press anthology) in September








And special collector’s edition, trade size reissues of my entire immortal Witch series, beginning with ETERNAL LOVE (includes Eternity, Infinity) in November and IMMORTAL KISS (with Destiny and Immortality) in December.

Q. About thirteen years ago, I picked up TWILIGHT MEMORIES, and had my every notion of the romantic heroine exploded to pieces by the vampiress Rhiannon. Since then, I’ve devoured every single book you've written, amazed each time by how fantastic and capable and simply kick-ass your heroines are. Does it creep you out to know that you share space in
an anthology with a woman who -- if not for the thin veneer of polite society -- would probably fly to NY, throw herself at your feet, and beg to have your babies?

A. Trust me, there are days I’d let you have my babies. =)

Q. What do you think the key is to creating a strong heroine? Despite their varying backgrounds and personalities, do you feel that there a commonality that all of yours share?

A. For me the key is always in the heroine’s background, in her past, usually in some deep and abiding pain she has experience and not yet dealt with. During the course of the story she often finds a way to deal with it, even finding a way to draw strength from it. And maybe that’s because my own history is quite a traumatic and painful one, and I’d like to think I can find some benefit from it all. Inner strength is something I strive for. It comes and goes. But I’d love to think I’m as strong as my heroines are, deep down. In truth I think most of them spring from my image of the woman I would be if I were everything I wish I were.


Q. What is your favorite scene in “Animal Magnetism” and why?

A. I like the first love scene the best. I love the way Macy gets all the info she needs to successfully seduce her skeptic cop, by having a heart to heart conversation with his basset hound, Fred.

Q. Give us a movie-style voice-over for your story, beginning with the words:
"In a world..."

A. In a world, where a predator lurks, one witness holds the key. And only one woman can hear what that witness has to say. Salvation will come--but only if she can convince a skeptical cop to believe in the unbelievable.

How’s that?

Q. Do you have any pre-writing or during-writing rituals or habits you use to get your
muses flowing?

A. I usually put on some instrumental music, reread the last couple of chapters, and pray that my muse will be kind today. =)

Q. In this particular story, what actor and actress would you choose to play the leading roles?

A. Macy would be Sandra Bullock, I think. I love Sandra. Jay, on the other hand, would have to be played by Johnny Depp. What a pair, hmm?

WILD THING from Berkley, goes on sale May 1st. You can view a book trailer, read an excerpt, and even order the book at www.maggieshayne.com

It features stories by Maggie Shayne, Marjorie M. Liu, Alyssa Day and Meljean Brook

Read interviews with those authors about their stories, to get the full picture, at the following sites:

“Paradise” by Mejean Brook http://www.meljeanbrook.com/blog
“Hunter Kiss” by Marjorie M. Liu http://www.webpetals.livejournal.com
“Wild Hearts in Atlantis” by Alyssa Day http://www.warriorsofposeidon.blogspot.com

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Can you hear me? I’m making lots of noise here. Mostly good noise, because I’m focused and determined, but not all good. Last night I was asked if I wanted some cheese with my wine. Only I wasn’t drinking anything. And I realized, once I slowed down enough to pay attention, that that wine was really "whine". At least I was whining loudly. Roaring. Alive and full of energy.

I don’t even know what I was whining about. But it felt good. And my friend, once I tuned back in, was smiling at me. Glad that I’d fully engaged in this business of living and said what I really felt in stark, bald complete truth. It’s really hard to whine and roar and make a fuss when the one you’re fussing at smiles and congratulates you.

But I’m going to try anyway. I have a broken toe. Now I realize, toes are small in the large scheme of things, but this one hurts. Really really hurts. I’d never have believed something that tiny could hurt so much. The pain radiates up the side of my foot and into my calf and I’m convinced that I will soon have a back and hip problem because I’m having to put all my weight on my other side and walk unevenly. This wouldn’t really be that big of a deal, but did I mention that I broke this toe this morning on the wheel of my suitcase as I was rushing around in the dark before dawn trying to get to the airport for a flight to Houston? I’m speaking on four different panels at the Romantic Times reader and bookseller convention this weekend. And signing books, too. I have a new book out – The Night We Met – published as part of Harlequin’s new Everlasting line and it will be there.

I have a broken toe, can’t get a shoe on, and I have to go. And my back hurts, too. Because yesterday, I really roared. All day. All through the house. I’m moving into my new life with very little notice and no preparation. I put together five different household items – shoe racks, a laundry cart, a garment rack and a three bag laundry sorter. Then I had the desk to move. I bought it the day before.

Come to think of it, I roared then, too. All by myself I drove my recently retrieved car the fifteen minutes I had to go to get to a town with a store that sells things like desks. I found the town. That was a roaring accomplishment. I found the store. I found a desk – and other components – that I absolutely love. It’s different. Has a computer tower. It’s cherry wood and so me. I talked the guys down to a deal that I still can’t believe. They very nicely offered to load all the pieces into my Expedition, bragging about the fact that they’d never fit so much into a vehicle. I found my way home. And managed to unload several of the pieces all by myself before I had to keep an appointment.

So…back to yesterday, I moved the desk into my new office. Got trapped in the doorway for a time and had a moment of claustrophobic panic. And then I roared some more. I got a screw driver thingy with a hex top and took the legs off the desk. I put them back on, too. And lifted a hutch – all by myself – up onto the desk. I moved boxes and organized the bathroom and did eight loads of laundry and packed, too. I hurt my back, but I did it roaringly.

I’m back to rollerblading. First time out I didn’t even have a moment of awkwardness, but just flew down the street as though I hadn’t missed almost two years of regular skating. I was out almost two hours and wasn’t even sore afterward. I breezed over the streets, belting out songs along with my Walkman, telling the universe that the time is now and the time is right for me. Yeah, I was really roaring then. And look forward to my skate times – and to a life that settles into the routine that allows me to skate every single day.

And…I roared when I almost burnt down the house. After a five day drive from Phoenix to Ohio, arriving at my new home in the middle of Sunday night. I only had about three hours to sleep before I had to be up to keep a promise and fulfill responsibility. Back home an hour later I set to moving in – unloading the trailer, the Expedition, sorting a week’s worth of laundry, boiling chicken for my little baby girl who is so spoiled she won’t touch her dog food unless it’s laced with chicken. And I fell asleep. Really, deeply asleep. When the alarm went off, I laid there deciding that for once, for the first time ever, I was going to ignore it. I wasn’t even going to wake up enough to turn it off. It would wear out eventually. And then I continued to analyze and rationalize to the point of waking myself up and realizing that the alarm wasn’t from my clock. It was the smoke alarm. I opened my eyes to a room full of thick grey smoke. Jumping up, I grabbed four pound Taylor Marie and ran out to find the entire house consumed with this same smoke – and an acrid smell that turned my stomach. I’d cooked her chicken all right. And the pan. And part of the stove. But I hadn’t cooked the house yet. In true roaring fashion, I grabbed the pan off the stove – bare hands and all – turned off the appliance, and ran through the house opening every available ventilation device. Two days later, the house still smells. But, hey, I roared. There are bound to be after effects.

I’m in the Dayton airport now, waiting for my flight. I missed my scheduled plane ride – in deference to the broken toe. But I’m here now, throbbing foot and all. I walked (okay limped ungracefully) into the airport with my bags, made it to the ticket counter, talked my way onto another flight at no charge, delivered by bags to luggage security check, got myself to security and am now at the gate. I did it all by myself. Roaring the whole way.

Because I am woman. And I can.

Get Me Outta Here! (Suzanne Forster)

This blog has had quite a succession of titles over the last ninety-six hours. Here are a few: Live from Las Vegas, Dispatch from Sin City, Losing My Shirt in Vegas, Losing My Religion in Vegas, Leaving Las Vegas, Trying to Leave Las Vegas, Desperate to Leave Las Vegas, Stranded in Las Vegas, Dead or Alive in Las Vegas?

Is it obvious that my weekend getaway to Sin City was less than stellar? Talk about from the sublime to the ridiculous. Actually, more like from the ridiculous to the sublime to the surreal before it was over. I should have known this was going to be a challenging trip when I saw the size of the security line at the Orange County airport. It was out the door and around the terminal. Gave me a Disneyland flashback.

Then there was the confusion with my son and daughter-in-law, who were flying into Vegas from Portland. This was my first trip on U.S. Air, and we were supposed to meet at the Las Vegas airport, where a car would pick us up so we didn’t have to swelter in the endless taxi lines. But somehow I got left behind. My kids swore there was no U.S. Air flight #60—and they may have been right. When I got down to baggage I saw no U.S. Air carousels, no flight #60 listed anywhere on the displays, and no one I spoke with knew anything about it. I did find my bag near a U.S. Air baggage claim office, but I have no idea how it got there. Was I on a ghost flight?

As I type this from the Las Vegas airport, waiting for what I pray will finally be my flight home after endless delays, cancellations, confusion and chaos, I’m trying to calculate how many hours I’ve spent here, both coming and going, waiting for ground and air transportation. Maybe fifteen total for what was supposed to have been a forty-eight hour hop to and from Vegas for a belated wedding reception.

I logged in three of those hours on arrival, searching for my kids, who were searching for flight #60. Malfunctioning cell phones were part of the problem, and of course, we all ended up sweltering at a taxi stand after all. The car and driver were long gone.

Okay, that’s the ridiculous part so far. Now, let’s get to the sublime, and believe me, I wish there’d been more of it. But hanging out with my kids, who live two states away, is always sublime—and because a relative was celebrating a recent marriage, there were family members and friends I hadn’t seen in years. The Venetian hotel, where we stayed, was also sublime, as was the wedding reception at Caesar’s, the dinner at Delmonico’s and the lunch at Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill. All incredible.

Even losing money at the slots was fun, mostly because I did win once in while, which adds support to my theory that all things in Vegas are designed to keep you gambling. The occasional win is intermittent positive reinforcement, and there is no greater motivator. Seriously. Those poor dogs that Pavlov tortured salivated at the mere sniff of a milk bone.

Here’s my Vegas Discomfort Conspiracy Theory. They don’t want you comfortable unless you have your butt in a chair at a gaming table or a slot machine, even at the airport. Next time you’re at one of the hotels on the strip, notice that there’s nowhere to sit in those huge, ultra-fabulous lobbies. That’s true of the airport, too. There are no rest or lounging areas, other than the chairs at the gate. Also, no real restaurants that I could find, just snack bars. There aren’t even any airline clubrooms there. U.S. Air is supposed to have one, but I never saw any evidence of it, and why would an airline that doesn’t even have a baggage carousel have a clubroom? They want you to gamble, not lounge.

Now, for the trip back, which quickly went from ridiculous to surreal.

Let’s start with the drunk man at the U.S. Air gate, who sat right next to me, slurping on what looked like a huge gin and tonic and talking rhapsodically about Paris, France, interspersed with choruses of Baby, It’s Cold Outside (it was eighty-plus degrees). I pretended to be reading, so he picked on everyone else in the vicinity, determined to strike up conversations where he could. Amazing how agreeable everybody was, until he began to sing. That was it for me, too. I left when he began to accompany himself by beating on his briefcase as if it was a bongo. Later, I wondered what happened to him, and if he fared better than the rest of us headed for Orange County, California on U.S. Air flight 139.

I had a four p.m. flight but got to the airport early, thinking I could get some work done on my book since I had my laptop with me. Silly me. Vegas is the equivalent of adults on spring break. People don’t stop partying when they get to the airport. But as boarding time approached and our plane hadn’t yet arrived, the crowd began to sober up.

We were told the plane couldn’t land because of the high winds. Two hours later, the plane had arrived, but federal regulations required that a new flight crew had to be found. An hour after that, the flight was cancelled. A mad rush ensued to Passenger Services, but after interminable waiting, we were told it was the wrong line, and we should all go downstairs to Ticketing to be reassigned. But again, wrong line. Go to Cancelled Flights.

Eventually it became clear that no one was flying out that night on any airline. We all took turns holding each other’s place in line as we ran across three lanes of airport traffic to get our stranded bags. By the time I got back to the ticketing line, a fight had broken out between a distraught couple and the airline’s manager over vouchers for food and lodging. The couple won, believe it or not. The airline agreed to put us up for the night, which should have been good news, but unfortunately, the nightmare was only beginning.

I never found the shuttle to the hotel, and taxi line was miles long, even at that time of night. The driver I got spoke zero English and had never heard of the hotel. When we finally found it, just by chance, I understood why. It was miles off the Strip, and not a hotel at all. Remember the motel in Psycho, the classic horror flick? This was worse. But I was alone, starving, exhausted and limping from blisters and lower back pain. There was no restaurant and no chance of getting any food, but at least I would get a couple hours sleep before my five a.m. wakeup call. Right? Wrong.

My room faced an unlit alley with blinds that wouldn’t close and a dead bolt that wouldn’t bolt. And did I mention the trains that thundered by every couple of hours, shaking the earth and blasting their whistles? On the way to the airport this morning, the shuttle driver told me airline people were never supposed to be in the rooms by the train. Apparently they made an exception in my case. I feel so special, lol.

So, here I am now, back in the airport at six-thirty a.m. (three hours early because all the later shuttles were full), seriously sleep-deprived and obviously in shock because I’m feeling no pain whatsoever, not even from the blisters. I wonder what happened to the tone-deaf guy with the huge drink. He wasn’t feeling any pain, either. Plus, I never saw him standing in any lines, and I’ll bet he didn’t end up in the Bates motel. He may have been the only smart one among us Sin City refugees. Or maybe he’d flown U.S. Air before.

You know what they say: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Now I know why they say it. What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas. Just not me, please. Get me outta here!

Suz, the stranded

Spring! (Anne Stuart)

My darlings, it's spring! One week ago we were in the midst of a nor'easter, rain and snow and slush and trees down, today it's in the seventies and most of the snow is gone. The driveway is a sea of mud, but apart from that life is good.

Mud is the price we pay for living in Vermont. It's so thick and deep it grabs the cars and sinks them in deep.

There's actually some argument as to whether Vermont has four seasons or five, including mud season as the fifth. Personally I think we're down to four, because we never really have spring. It just goes straight to summer.

We don't live on dirt (mud) roads any more, though most of my friends do, and we still have to manage to get out our driveway in the first place.

It's the perfect time to sit on the deck and try to find some of the sun that's been eluding us for so long. A perfect time to write, since walking is out of the question both because of the Big H and the fact that the roads are a sea of mud. When I first moved here, in 1971, the mud was so deep and I was such a chicken-shit driver that I spent April walking to and from the store (about 2 miles each way) singing "The Hippopotamus Song" at the top of my lungs ("mud, mud, glorious mud, nothing quite like it for cooling the blood, so follow me follow, down to the hollow, and there let us wallow in glorious mud.")

So the rest of you with things like forsythia and dogwood go out and enjoy it, and think of me in the mud, enjoying the brown goo and the sunshine.

And tell a poor spring-starved woman what you like best about the season wherever you live. Daffodils? Baby lambs? Convertibles with the top down for the first time this year?

And remind me next fall to plant some crocus, so I'll get a least a spot of color in the dun-colored landscape.

Feel-Good Places on the Web

Need a pick-me-up? There's one at your fingertips, thanks to the Internets and recommendations from friends. Try these, and post some recommendations of your own.

Stuff on My Cat
http://www.stuffonmycat.com




The Daily Puppy
http://dailypuppy.com




Astronomy Picture of the Day
http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod

Scattered (Lynn Kerstan)

Lately, I just can’t seem to finish anything. Or maybe it’s that I can’t keep from starting too many things at the same time.

Probably because I’ve put off a score of tasks for so long that procrastination is no longer an option. Now just about everything in my life is a work-in-progress. Using the term "progress" very loosely here.

On this rainy day, I had resolved to strike at least half a dozen tedious jobs from my list. There wasn’t a single one of them I wanted to do. Now it’s nearing midnight. Here in my small living room/office, I’m sitting in a comfortable chair with my laptop, feeling like an island in a sea of chaos.

All around me are projects half done, or barely begun, or in a mess because I don’t know how to deal with them. To my left is a small suitcase that needs (since mid-March) to be put away, but I put something else where it usually goes and can’t find another place for it.

Beside it is my large cat carrier. As of this morning, happily, Lymond seems to be doing a little better. But that’s what I thought yesterday morning, for about twenty minutes. Then he got worse than ever. What if I need to rush him to the vet's? After a whole day of improvement, I’m starting to feel hopeful. Not enough to put away the carrier, though. While I’m not the least bit superstitious, that seems like tempting Fate or poking a stick at Fortune.

Nestled against the carrier is an Ikea planter stand that, in winter, holds my small space heater. With spring allegedly here, I’ve twice got out the ladder and stashed the heater in an overhead closet, only to have the temperature plummet all the way to the mid-fifties. Okay, I have thin So-Cal blood. Your point would be . . . ? The heater stays out until I need the fan.

Nearby is the ironing board. I meant to dredge out my stored spring clothes and press one or two things to wear on sunny days. The dredged clothes are currently stacked on the window seat. A half-ironed cotton jacket is spread out on the ironing board. Near it is the iron, almost invisible because of the pile of stuff related to another project I started when ironing became insupportable. That would be halfway through ironing the jacket.

In the corner is a laundry basket, overflowing with sheets, towels, underwear, and socks. The apartment complex laundry room is thirty yards away. It’s been raining. There are puddles.

The small tables and shelves surrounding my workspace are, well, invisible. Atop them are mountains of unread magazines to be sorted through and recycled. Foothills of not-quite-junkmail that wasn’t urgent but should be dealt with. Books and research materials I used for the online writing class I just finishing teaching.

I got the vacuum cleaner out as well. This is the first day in a long time that I thought it would not be terrorizing a very sick cat. It’s still sitting there, unused. Maybe tomorrow, if he doesn’t have a relapse. Cat is snoozing on my bed at the moment. No comfortable cat-spots in this room, what with everything buried under something or other. At least he can jump onto the bed, which he hasn’t been able to do for the last several weeks.

I’m sure all of you are better organized, neater, more persistent, and less scatterbrained than I am. But if you have any bad habits or lapses to report, I’d be glad to hear about them. Or maybe you can inspire me to finish something. What should I start with?

I'm Off To Houston (Patricia Potter)

It seems a little amazing to me that every week someone steals my thunder. Someone writes what I’d planned to write.

I’ve always had a theory about writing. Some mysterious God sprinkles idea dust over writers. Why else would a fellow writer have my plot a month before my book comes out? Why else did I write a book titled "Seize the Fire" that came out one month after Laura Kinsale’s "Seize The Fire?"

Magic dust. That’s what it was.

Now it’s happening with blogs. This time the culprit is Suz.

She blogged about the various writer communities and the joy and creative bounce they always give us. There is something energizing to join with others of like mind. And comforting. We realize – again – that others have any number of non-existent people running amok in their heads without being totally deranged. We know the joy of that "awe" moment when some passing observation reminds us of something we’ve forgotten.

Equally important, we understand each other.

Not everyone understands us. My family considers me rather eccentric, which is perfectly fine. I like eccentric. It excuses any number of behaviors, including absentmindedness, pajamas all day and poor housekeeping.

So next week I take off to Houston for the Romantic Times Conference. It is one I usually attend annually, along with Novelists, Inc. (Ninc.), and Romance Writers of America. The conferences are all different and have their particular attraction. But it’s also nice to be normal and that I am in a group of writers.

One thing they do have in common are reunions. I’ve been in the business long enough to have friends in all groups, and every conference is a source of joy.

Ninc is usually small and comfortable and full of good friends. It’s my "fun" conference. I go, but then disappear with friends, usually in search of the sea (see earlier blog), river or some other body of water.

RWA, on the other hand, is rather awe-inspiring is size. Some 2,000 writers (published and unpublished), editors and agents come together en mass. It's truly an experience. It's also exhausting simply because -- after 22 years in the business -- I've found so many friendships and always refresh them there. To make things more difficult, my agent, editor and publisher usually atttend, and I have to be on my good behavior. Not always easy for a free spirit.

The third conference I usually attend each year, and my destination next week, is the Romantic Times’ Booklovers Conference.

Sponsored by the magazine, it’s always a blast. Most of the attendees are readers and booksellers, though there's also a number of aspiring authors. Just as important, though, is the fact that the planners insist on it being fun as well as informative. I usually go because a good number of small independent book sellers attend, and they’ve been extraordinarily kind to me over the years. This year is special, though, because my hero from "Beloved Stranger" – Lachlan – is being honored with the Knight in Shining Silver Award (K.I.S.S,) as the best historical hero of the year. It’s an award I cherish because that’s what our genre is all about: great heroes.

I particularly like Lachlan, a quiet man who wanted to be a priest and is pushed into being a warrior. But he always values books far more than weapons. The book was the second in my
Beloved series that ends with my current book, "Beloved Warrior," so I’ll be there promoting my heart out. I adore the Maclean brothers and am inconsolable that I have to let them go. I’ll find a way to bring them back.

I’m looking forward to the conference for another reason. I love traveling. I love airports – even now in age of heightened security. I love airplanes, though the ones I take are getting smaller and smaller.

This time I’m going to Houston from Memphis. But I have to pass through Atlanta to get there, which says a lot about air traffic today. But it also means six blessed hours during which I can work on my book without interruption. When I want a break, I can people watch, one of my favorite activities.

I never, ever get bored in an airport. Not even when I’ve been stranded over night.

Writers are strange and eccentric people. I'm proud to be among them.

Spring Flings, Wedding Rings, and Finding Your Bliss--Maggie Shayne

I’ve been debating what to discuss here in this space today. I was tempted to comment on the tragedy at Virginia Tech, but since I have yet to tune my TV to any channel without seeing it covered, and since NBC, who promised not to run their exclusive footage of the shooter’s personal press kit in “an endless loop” is instead running it before and after every break and in full segments in between (technically, that’s not an endless loop, I guess) I decided that story is getting all the attention it needs. And paying copious amounts of attention to negative things makes us attract more of them. So I send my sincere sympathies to the families and traumatized students and staff, and I project as much healing and comfort and love as I can muster in their direction, even as I gently turn my attention elsewhere.

I was thinking, too, I might blog about the landmark Supreme Court decision on abortion, but since we Storybroads decided not to get too controversial here, I’ll save that one for my Myspace blog. http://www.myspace.com/maggieshayne

Instead, I’m going to continue my current pattern of talking about life, love, living single for the first time, and family stuff, which, in my case, is always an adventure and usually a comedy.

We got blasted by the Nor’easter you all heard about and I was firmly put in my place by nature.

“You, dear Maggie, are NOT the forecaster of ME. YOU insist it’s going to be an early spring? Well, you just watch this, beeee-otch!
Love, Mother Nature.”

Yeah, she’s got one wicked sense of humor. But okay, I admit it, I was wrong, it was not an early spring. Well, it was for about a week, and then it was the worst of winter again. I cleared my driveway one last time and my back is still sore. It was the heaviest snow I ever shoveled! However, the good news is, we have turned the corner. The forecast today is for the mid to high fifties, sixties tomorrow and through the weekend, and—get this—a whopping 75 degrees on Monday! Yessssssss!

So we got through that. My positive attitude flagged a bit here and there. Mostly, I kept it, but that weather made it tough. With the storm behind me, I was able to focus once again on the matter at hand, that matter being, the wedding! This is a big deal. It’s the fourth wedding I’ve planned. Daughters #1, 2 and 3 are already wed. (Not in that order—the order was 2, 3, 1, actually.) This one is for #5, the youngest, and #4 is engaged, but faithfully keeping in mind my request that we not hold more than one wedding per year. (This is the third year in a row. No wonder I’m so broke! You know if they ever stop getting married, I could take what has become my annual wedding budget---and which is increasing exponentially with each wedding---and blow it on a massive vacation for myself! I could probably spend an entire summer in a beach house in the tropics, actually!)

Okay, enough whining. Weddings are worth it. But this one is particularly important, because it’s the first one in our family since I split with my ex, and most of the girls seem to think that means disaster. To hear them talk you would think the world was about to end and the wedding was a big farce where everyone is supposed to pretend that isn’t happening. (Some of them really are taking this split hard, and oddly, the bride is not the worst case. She seems pretty okay with things, actually.) Anyway, it’s important to me that it be a beautiful wedding, as beautiful as they all have been, and that everyone gets along wonderfully, has a terrific time, and there is nothing even the least bit sad or tense about it. At least no more than any of the other weddings have had. We all know there’s tension in weddings, especially by the bride as the date draws near, but that’s the normal kind of tension.

So anyway, I got a lot more done. Lisa came home for four days right before the blizzard hit and we visited the caterer’s restaurant, booked the rehearsal dinner, planned the menu for the wedding, then visited the wedding site for final prep there. We ordered the champagne flutes, cake serving set, and guestbook. We picked up the bridesmaid dresses, too—all but one, and one we need to reorder in a better size.

We had a really nice visit too, got along great, hit the mall, had lunch at our favorite spot, bought Stevie Nicks and Pat Benatar CDs to listen to in the car, and just really re-connected, and that was soooooo good. It’s hard having her so far away.

Anyway, she did have time to visit with each of her sisters, their kids, and her dad while she was home, but not nearly enough (four days is too short) and she managed to hop her flight back to the sunny south before the storm started causing flights to be cancelled and delayed—just barely. Since she left, I have booked the limo, ordered chair covers and chairs, re-ordered the one mis-sized gown and sent a photo of the arch Lisa wants to her dad, who’s going to build it for her.

Lots left to do, of course, but all the major stuff is done. And I’m looking for something special I can add that will be a surprise, to make the wedding even more special, but I haven’t come up with anything yet. So if you guys have any ideas, let me know.

All of this, and mostly the girls’ reactions to the current status of my life, has me thinking though, a whole lot about how much we let other people’s actions affect us, when really, we don’t need to. In fact, taken to the extreme, the actions of that young student, Cho, in Virginia reflect the same sort of issue. In his diatribe he lashes out at other people, basically saying “I didn’t want to do this. YOU made me do this. This is YOUR fault.”
We see this same kind of mis-guided mindset, to a far smaller extreme, in our lives everyday.

“I’m not happy because you……”
“I could be happy, if you would only ……..”
“I’m not going to enjoy myself tonight because I know that you……”
"This event will never be perfect to me, because you....."
Fill in the blanks. When you think about it, hanging your happiness on the backs of other people is really asking an awful lot of them. Your happiness is YOUR job, not theirs.

When it comes right down to it, blaming others for our own mood is kind of a cop out. You (and I) are in charge of our own happiness. The way someone else behaves has nothing to do with it. We can choose to let the actions of others throw us into a tizzy, or we can choose to realize that their behavior is their own, and they’re just living their lives the way they want and need to, and that we don’t need to let their choices shake us to the core of our being. Their decisions are theirs. How we react to those decisions is up to us. When someone is behaving in a way that might tend to bring us down, then all we have to do is gently turn our attention elsewhere. Being constantly obsessed about what’s going on in someone else’s personal life is focusing on it way too much. And especially if you don’t like what you see. That puts your focus on things that make you feel bad, which makes you vibrate in accordance with that bad feeling, which makes you attract all sorts of other things that will make you feel just as bad.


So if you don’t like the way someone else is living their life, then don’t look so closely at their life. Focus on things that make you feel good. Focus on bringing things that make you feel good into your own life. Use that “not good” feeling you get about the other person’s choices as a lesson, it’s showing you the contrast. “That’s what I don’t want” you can say, and then shift your focus to what you do want, and you’ll bring it to you.

Obsessing about what you don’t want, don’t like, don’t feel good about, just brings more of those things to you. And it’s especially silly when those things are all based on the actions and behaviors and choices of other people, which really, face it, have nothing to do with you. So really, don’t.

In relationships, it’s a little harder, because you have to be around the other person, and find some way to deal with them. So here’s how that works. Instead of focusing on the one thing (or the ten things) about that person that drive you crazy, focus on the one thing (or the ten things) you love about them, and really keep your focus there. The result will be one of two things. Either the person will respond by giving you more and more of the things you love about them, and less of the things you don’t, raising their vibration to match yours, or the person will move away from you and you’ll be relieved by that.

Judging people and wishing they would change is a waste of your energy. Love what you love about them and ignore what you don't, or else just move away. Your choice.

I’m going to close with some of my favorite quotes from Abraham (http://www.abraham-hicks.com) which I think, if you really think about and meditate on (or even print up and hang on the walls around your house like I do, so I don’t forget) will make your life better, and help you to be a happier, more fulfilled and more positive person.

“What you think of me is none of my business.”

“If the way you feel depends on anything outside yourself, you’re in trouble.”

“My joy doesn’t depend upon the approval of others.”

“No one has to change anything that they are doing, in order for you to be joyous.”

Try it. Just for one week, try the experiment of keeping your focus only on things that make you feel good, and trying to ignore anything that makes you feel bad. See what happens as a result!

Just some thoughts to ponder, until next week….

Maggie

Culture Shock (Tara Taylor Quinn)

So it's official. I'm moving. Right now, actually. My truck load of belongings is someplace in the United States. I'm in my car following them across the country. We're hoping (I'm hoping for both of us) that we end up together on Sunday. The official start of a new life. I'm counting on it being a wonderful life.

Here are some things I've noticed along the way:

1. You can take things, but not people. You can't leave your mail, but you leave your heart. No matter what, there is a part of my heart that will always belong to the life I've left behind.

2. Some parts of your old life go with you. Lessons learned. Possessions. And some people, too. I'm very blessed to be bringing almost everyone from the old life to the new. Some relationships are changing definition. Some are still in transition. But for the most part, I'm relieved to report that they will be traveling with me in some form or another. And for the one that is lost - a very dear friend - it was time to move on. And, still, I take a part of that with me. It will be with me. Always.

3. Sunny is sunny and grey is grey. Or are they? I'm leaving the sunniest place in the world. At least in all the world I've visited. I thrive on blue skies and sunshine. They lift my mood. And conversely, their opposite - greyness - depresses me. I'm one of those folks who is physically effected by weather. Weird, I know. And yet...I spent three weeks in greyness and got a book done, tuned into myself and life and those around me, decorated our space with bright vivid colors, and conciously celebrated when the sun did shine. I didn't take the beauty for granted. I spent four days in sunshine and got out and about, enjoyed the weather, had no space of my own and cried my way through the hours. And this I learned. It's not so much about what's outside as what's inside that counted.

4. Slow is not always worse. I'm a busy person. I thrive on activity. I bore easily. I've always lived in big cities, craving the stimulation, the choices. My two favorite US cities are Las Vegas and New York. I love the freneticism. The varied people. Differing lifestyles living side by side. I love the shopping! And I'm moving to a city that I could walk end to end during my morning constitutional. I have to drive 45 minutes to get Clinique make-up! And a fine dining restaurant is the local pub. (There are a few of them.) I resisted this horrifying circumstance, lamenting, complaining, knowing in my heart of hearts that I was going to wilt and fade away in this town if I didn't get myself out. And three weeks later, as I drove home (yeah, that was the thought in my head, go figure) from the city, an unexpected and unrecognizable peace settled over me. A slowing of the noise in my head, of my pace. I was driving more slowly (a huge feat to anyone who has ever ridden in the car with me.) I was noticing the houses - and the different things people had done to express themselves in their yards. I saw folks walking outside, sitting on porches. I don't mean I just noted beings there, I saw them. Felt them. Real living, breathing human beings with lives. I wondered where they were going, or what conversations they were having. I wondered what they were having for dinner and who was going to cook it. It occurred to me that my life had shrunk to tragically small proportions. Instead, my life had grown! Finally, instead of being side-tracked from what matters most, instead of being distracted by all the noise and the hustle and bustle, I was right smack in the middle of life, experiencing it in that moment. I'd reached a new, deeper level. And there is nothing negative about that. Instead of giving up life, I'd gained life.

5. Books get written - no matter what. I am here to tell you that I am well and truly a writer. It's not something I do, but something that I am. I write because I have to write to thrive. I write because when I get up in the morning, it beckons me, luring me in. Writing completes me. I write with tears in my eyes. I write in between horrible phone calls that are tearing my life apart. I write with a broken heart. I write when I fear that my life is danger. When I am losing everything that matters most to me. And I write when I'm adventuring into new, unchartered territory. I write when I have to pack up a life. And when I have to unpack one. I write while I'm doing laundry! Writing sustains me. It keeps me sane. It is the friend that is always there, no matter what, holding me up when all I want to do is fall into a corner and let this life end. It dries my tears. It sooths my heart. It brings me joy - no matter what my daily life is bringing me.

6. There is always, every single day, every single breath, something to be thankful for. These aren't just pretty words. I've experienced the lowest of lows - not all of them, but a few - and I found that if I looked around there was always something there that was good. Something I was grateful for. I'd learned to look for gratitude when I got blue, when darkness threatened to overcome me, and that lesson was put to the test. It worked. And I'm thankful for that!

7. It's never too late.

I promise.

The Blessings of Community, Any Community (Suzanne Forster)

Is it possible in this age of instant connection that we could be experiencing a disconnect? It seems we’re spending more time on our cell phones, PDAs and the internet, and less time meeting each other face to face. People aren’t talking in person the way they used to, apparently because they don’t have to. Am I the only one who thinks it ironic that technology might be making it easier for us to communicate but more difficult to connect?

Most of our electronic discourse is limited because of our inability to see the person on the other end. Seventy-five percent or more of our communication with others is based on body language, which is crucial for a full understanding of what people are trying to express—or trying not to express. For me, as a writer with a strong inclination toward psychological suspense, this is vital information, and I’m missing it!

And what happens if the more we come to depend on electronic means of communication the more isolated we become from real-life, intimate relationships? Can virtual hugs ever replace real ones? I’m not suggesting that we forgo all these wonderful new ways of reaching—and reaching out—to people. I love having instant access and being able to "talk" to people twenty-four hours a day. The Internet never sleeps, and being the occasional insomniac, I know this from personal experience. I love my loops and my groups and my on-line friends. Storybroads has taken on a community feel since we launched, and I celebrate my fellow bloggers and feel more connected to each of them than before we began this project. Long live the broads!

I’m also on a list of predominantly women writers, and we’ve formed bonds in ways I find difficult to put into words. We hold prayer vigils when members are in need, share just about everything that’s happening in our lives, no matter how painful or private, air opinions, even controversial ones, debate and argue current events, and have generally formed an astonishingly close and supportive sisterhood. In my Yahoo Readers Group, which has grown to a few hundred members over time, we refer to each other as a virtual family, sympathize with each other’s setbacks, celebrate our victories, and are probably more sensitive to and supportive of each other’s needs than many real families are.

I would never discount these relationships. They’re essential to my life and sustain me in so many ways. My writers and readers groups were with me through the worst of my mother’s illness and her death. I turned to them when I couldn’t turn to my own family. That should tell you how close the attachment is. What I’m suggesting is that we shouldn’t forget that there’s a difference. There are things you get from being with living, breathing people that you can’t get from your virtual friends, no matter how close and intimate the relationships. You need both. Chatting, instant messaging and posting to groups is not necessarily the same as being in a community of real-life, flesh-and-blood people, who can smile at you with their eyes and pat your hand and pull you into their arms for a hug.

I was with such a group this weekend, and it was a renewing, revitalizing experience. It also made me realize how isolated I am most of the time. It’s the nature of the beast when you’re a writer. We’re alone with our books because that’s what it takes to get a book written, and we don’t have much contact outside our immediate families. I’m sure there are many other professions similarly affected. For us loners, the internet has been a Godsend. We can be alone and have friends at the same time, but it’s very easy to lose touch with how much we also need those flesh-and-blood relationships and the sense of community that having common interests and sharing personal space with others, brings.

Saturday made me realize that I was losing touch, and to be honest, I’m probably writing this more because I need to hear it than because I need to say it. But possibly it will touch a chord
with some of you, too.

The meeting I attended was an Orange County Romance Writers group. I’ve been a member since the mid-eighties, but haven’t been to a meeting in years, for many reasons—family obligations and health issues, book deadlines and all of the other pressing demands of everyday life.

But I’m so glad I went this weekend. I saw old friends, made some new ones, and generally soaked up all the hugs and smiles, pats and handshakes. I hope I gave as good as I got. It was also lovely to celebrate the sales and successes of the members and to be acknowledged for some of my own achievements. They made it a point to announce that I have a book coming out later this month, invited me to be interviewed in the gorgeous slick magazine that is now their monthly newsletter. They also extended an invitation to speak to the group at some later date.
Heady stuff, but perhaps best of all, my beloved plot group, which is the only real-life group I regularly attend these days, decided to go to the meeting too, and one of them even came by and carted me up there because I’d had a bout of vertigo and wasn’t sure I could make the drive.

We’re all Orange County chapter members, and most of us hadn’t been to a meeting in ages, so it truly felt like a reunion. Such fun, especially because the four of us were treated to a wonderful talk about layering lusciousness into our work by the incomparable Barbara Samuels, whose writing is so rich and sensual it practically sings and dances on the page.

All in all, a wonderful day—for the experiences I had, and for what they taught me. Someone once said we need a minimum of four hugs a day. In the virtual world, I probably get ten times that many, and I appreciate every one of them. Now, I’ll be more appreciative of the real ones too.

And tonight, before I post this blog, I’m going to email it to the dh, who’s right down the hall and have him proofread it for me. I’ll probably send him a hug, too. Email, isn’t it wonderful? (smiles)
Suz

Mighty Storm (Anne Stuart)

I'm leaping in here, hoping the power will stay on long enough to get my blogging done. The sky is falling (the trees, the snow, the rain, the wind). Woke up this morning with no power, it came on six hours later but it's iffy. Fortunately we're tough Vermonters -- Richie went out and sawed up the huge tree that came down across our driveway so our son could get back to college, and then we just hunkered down to read.
It's been a hell of an April, which doesn't help when I'm basically lying on the sofa trying to look interesting. I need sunshine, I need spring, but fate seems to conspire against me.
Anyone got some good storm stories? For me, tree down across the driveway, lines down at the four corners, wind whipping like crazy and the power isn't going to last.
What's up with the rest of you? Is anyone getting spring?
Winds picking up again, which means the power will go again. Just gotta live without tv and the internet.
But like Gloria Gaynor, I will survive. How are the rest of you doing?

The Whine House is Now Open

This, too, will pass.

But sometimes you've just got to vent! Drop into Comments and let 'er rip.

Then do something good for yourself. Actually, that's a good policy for every day of the year.

Feline Follies (Lynn Kerstan)

I love the Internets. Google is my BFF. But sometimes, a person has just got to Step Away from the Mouse.

Like, for instance, when a cat is sick, and you don’t know why, but it doesn’t seem to be an emergency and you can’t get a vet appointment because of the holiday weekend. So there I was, all last weekend and the next two days as well, scrolling through one website after another, matching Lymond’s primary symptoms (lethargy and weak hind legs) to possible causes. Of which there were a multitude.

Who knew cats got diabetes? Or arthritis? At least those could be treated, unlike some of the truly dire possibilities. He’s only six years old! But without question, he was teetering around like a furry little old man. And I was carrying a twenty-pound lead ball in my chest.

By the time Wednesday morning dawned, I had everything prepared for the dreaded Get-Him- in-the-Cat-Carrier ordeal. The carrier, very large and shaped like a loaf of bread, has a heavy plastic domed lid that lets the cat see out and everyone else see in. I had stored the carrier in the shower stall on Monday so that Lymond could get used to the smell of it in the bathroom. I’d set aside a straightjacket . . . er, beach towel.

He wasn’t suspicious when I wrapped him in the towel and carried him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us. But when he saw the carrier with its lid open, he became thirteen pounds of panic. I wrestled him, still togaed by towel, into the carrier, but before I could shut the lid, he was out again.

Here’s the only time a teensy bathroom turns out to be useful. He had no escape, and I had a big towel. Finally he and towel were inside, the lid was shut, and I was breathing heavily.

He flung himself against the sides and lid of the carrier for awhile before crouching down in the corner. Then, emerging from the depths of the lowest circle of hell, came a lingering cry of utter despair. And another, and another. You’d have to hear that sound to believe it. When we left the apartment, a neighbor’s tiny dog, Nadia, came bouncing up. Lymond yowled. Nadia hauled tail outa there like a streak of lightning.

Fifteen-minute drive to the vet’s. Cat launched into a series of constant, loud meows. After awhile, I started meowing back, and pretty soon, we were alternating. Getting bored with that, I took to raising the pitch after each of my meows. Lymond followed me up the scale. Very weird experience, a duet with a cat.

He went silent when we came into the reception area and made himself as small as possible. Hoping we’d forget his existence, I suppose. After a long wait, a chirpy assistant led us to a small room. Another struggle match to get cat out of box and onto the counter for weighing and the taking of the temperature in the butt. He started to become deceptively docile.

Then the vet came in. Not the woman I’d been dealing with for years, but a tall, good looking, wholesome young man. He could have been the captain of a college soccer team. And he underestimated Lymond, who pretended to let himself be handed over to the stranger before making a sudden break for freedom.

Didn’t get far, but his flying leap off the high counter did no favors for his hind legs. He was limping when we finally got him out from under a chair.

The doc felt him up and down, but could detect no signs of injury. For diagnosis, we’d need X-Rays, a battery of blood tests, urinalysis . . . Ayieee! But whatever the expense, it had to be done. And they’d take the X-Rays straightaway, which might tell us something without need for the other stuff.

Nope. They were clear. Blood tests not due back until the next day, and the doctor would call with the results. He was very sweet and earnest. "I found nothing during the physical exam," he said, "except what I told you about the fairly large amount of solid waste inside him. You’re sure he’s been having bowel movements?"

"I’ve watched closely, and I scoop the litter every day. There have been turds." Was I really having this conversation?

"We’ll know more tomorrow," he said. "For now, the solid waste is all we are sure of."

I looked down at Lymond, huddled against me like the neediest orphan in the world. "So there you have it, cat. The preliminary diagnosis. Apparently, you are full of shit."

The vet was a little shocked, I think. Or maybe just startled. He flushed (no pun intended!) and gave a wavery grin. Helped me get Lymond back in the carrier–only two escapes this time. And all the way home, cat and I sang our duet of meows.

Thursday morning, the vet called to say that all the blood tests were normal. Yippee!

The twenty pound weight in my chest is much lighter now, although it’s still there. I am to watch Lymond, monitor his symptoms, and give him PetroMalt for the constipation.

So that’s the story of my Easter holiday. I’ve been teaching an on-line writing class, so being housebound has been just fine. Lymond continues to eat normally, be sweet and affectionate, and hasn’t uttered a sound (except for purring) since I brought him home.

I hope he gets well and stays that way. He’d better! I think it would take a SEAL Team to get him into that carrier again.

Spring, Baseball and the Sweet Spot (Patricia Potter)

This is a good day.

It's a beautiful day in Memphis: cerulean blue skies, a pleasant breeze and temperatures in the high 60's. There’s a special lilt in the songs sung by the many birds that inhabit my back yard and a new playfulness in the squirrels.

While I sometimes envy Suz’s and Lynn’s consistently beautiful weather and mild temperatures, I must say I love the change of seasons. I love spring with its tender green shoots and scent of new flowers. I love summer and its shimmering sun. My pool always awaits those hot days. I’m enchanted by the colors of fall and, with apologies to my snow-bound sisters, enjoy the cold winds – and very occasional snow – of winter.

But spring is special. It always signifies new beginnings, and I’m rooting on both Tara and Maggie. Changes are never easy, especially after many years, but I’m wishing both great joys.

I’m happy for other reasons as well.

One is baseball. Yes, I admit to being a baseball junkie. Didn’t used to be that way. Came to it rather late. When I lived in Atlanta, I would go to a game occasionally, but it never played an important part in my life. But the past three years are different. I’ve become a fanatic.

One reason is my mother. She’s in a nursing home, and I try to go over every night. We usually talk a while, then watch television together. She’s hard of hearing and her attention span isn’t that great so she doesn’t enjoy many programs. Swift moving dramas are incomprehensible to her. Talking heads are understandable, but she can tolerate only so many news and talk shows. But baseball . . . ah baseball.

She has always loved baseball.

So I'm delighted when baseball season starts because I know it's something she really enjoys watching. We watch every Atlanta Braves game, and I’ve become an expert on the game and players, and I’ve grown to enjoy it as much as she. I especially enjoy watching her enjoy it. At 97, she deserves these small pleasures.

The other really good thing this week: I’ve finally reached the "sweet spot" in my book.

I wrote a post in November about starting a new book and bringing you along on the journey with me. According to my plan, it should have been done by now and in the hands of my editors. Not so.

There’s many excuses, one being my mother who has gone through several crisises. It’s difficult to be creative when you’re worrying about someone all the time. But there’s been other missteps along the way. Probably the greatest roadblock has been my inability to immerse myself completely into the story. The characters sat back and left everything up to me. Not good.

That meant I depended on craft rather than instinct. That meant dragging myself up to the computer, dreading turning to the chapter because the magic just wasn’t there.

Then something wonderful finally happened this week. I hit that sweet spot. The time when the characters shoved me aside and told me they would take it from here. The synopsis flies out the window.

I think every writer hopes to hit that sweet spot sooner than later, but I’ll take it anytime I get it. Then I can go back and fill in. I know, finally, what is motivating the characters, what secrets they carry with them. Yes, I did have an idea in the beginning. I did the character studies that most of us do. I thought I knew them inside and out, But I didn’t. Not completely.

When characters take over, really take over, they assume other characteristics, other nuances that I never imagined. I just go along for the ride.

I sometimes go back and read a book I wrote eight or nine years earlier and can’t believe I actually wrote it. Probably because I didn’t. The characters did, and once they leave my head, they leave it forever. With few exceptions, I can’t remember the major characters and even plots of books I wrote just a few years earlier because the story didn't come from me. It came from the characters who have since fled from my mind, making way for the new people.

Now Kirke and Jake have finally taken over, and are falling in love, and I’m writing like a demon possessed.

Excuse me while I discover what surprises they have for me.

Out Of The Mouths of Babes (Tara Taylor Quinn)

The storybroads - or at least half of them - seem to be having a theme going on. We're starting new lives! Kind of a cool concept, to know that at any stage of life, any age, we can begin again. Start anew. It's scary. And hard. There's a lot of pain involved. And yet, the whole idea of 'new' opens up unending possibility. I think back over the past months of Maggie's beginnings. She bought a snow plow. Remember how excited she was? And then we waited with her until the first snow. Froze with her while she dealt with it. And what about the great rescue escapade? And the things that go bump in the night? Who knows what Anne and I have in store?

I've been resisting my new start. Looking back. Hurting so badly. And in the midst of my contemplation the babies around me have been teaching me. Working with me without my having asked. Without my even knowing they were at work. And isn't that how life works? From the most innocuous, least expected places, we are given exactly what we need to go on. To move forward into this great experience of life.

That's Taylor Marie. Like me, she had to leave behind the only life she'd known. When she first arrived in her new, very strange town, she had extreme culture shock. She went from living with her best friends, to living with a sad mama. And she had to go potty in grass!!! A true Arizonian desert baby, Taylor had never met grass - or at least, had only run in it briefly on a couple of dog park adventures. Certainly she'd never met naturally growing wild grass. She wasn't all that fond of the idea of squatting and letting those blades tickle her belly. And then there was the snow. Now that was a trip. She stared. Stuck her nose in it. Looked back at me. And trotted out and pottied. She was acclimating to this new world! When she first came she wouldn't eat treats. Or chew her bones. She just wanted to be close to her mama. To security. Or maybe she knew she had a big job to do, watching out for the woman who was supposed to be watching out for her. In any case, without my even being aware, Taylor slowly started to take to her new life. One day she started running through the house, a crazy girl. And then she was lying on the back of the sofa chewing a dingo bone. Suddenly the treats that had been lying around started to disappear. And yesterday, she made three new friends. I dropped her off at the home of a woman I'd met (so maybe her mama has a new friend, too) and when I went to pick her up, she was in the middle of the floor playing with two of the three poodle girls who live there. And when it was time to leave, she pranced over to her mama and was in a great mood the rest of the day - and gobbled her dinner when she got home. She's been barking and carrying on ever since. She's come back to life. And telling her mama that it's okay - she can come back to life, too. It's not so bad out there. Nothing - no one - will ever replace the love lost, the friends lost, but there are other great friends waiting to be met. We just have to put ourselves out there.

That's William Wright. My little Bubby. In my old life he was the light on the distant horizon. My pure joy. And so far away. In my new life, he lives right around the corner. Well, it's a forty-five minute corner, but that's a lot better than 1700 miles away. This little guy works hard to do things that most of us take for granted, but you wouldn't know from the smile on his face, or the laughter that erupts up out of his belly, that he's working at all. He's teaching his Aunt Tia about endurance, and finding the joy rather than the difficulty. Every chore he tackles, like trying to keep his trunk steady and his ankles strong so he can walk, all the sit ups he does every single night (with the help of his daddy and mama and sissies) he engages in full heartedly and generally with a smile on his face. I had dinner with him on Saturday. And got to hold him a lot. He and I shared some chocolate cake and ice cream. (He had the ice cream, I had the cake) and this little guy took every bite with a fervor that was contagious. Eating dessert had never been such a deep and consuming event. Finding joy in the little things - in everything. In whatever is in front of you at the moment. That's what Bubby is teaching me. And when those big blue eyes look at me, and that little hand rubs across his belly, signing the word 'please' my heart almost explodes with joy. He's communicating with us now. I can't wait to hear all the wisdom he's going to impart.

This is Claire. This little girl is the most independent, precocious little tyke I've ever met. She has her own mind, and at two, she knows fully what it's telling her at all times. We know it, too. She's not shy about sharing. Whether she's pleased with you or not, she tells it like it is. Used to be,