I Did It. (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I went camping. Really. At a campground. Where you pay for your spot and you camp. Where there are group showers and pottys and water supplies. Where people don't bathe as often as you'd sometimes like, guys don't shave and women don't wear make-up. Clothes are wrinkled, jewelry is still in it's natural form in the ground, and the smell of fire permeates everything. Including the food you eat. Other, less accepted smells seem to permeate things, too.

I'm not sure why people do this. All weekend long I kept shaking my head and asking, why? I didn't get it. You spend so much effort to haul everything but the kitchen sink up to a plot of dirt and then spend days trying to live as conveniently as possilbe without conveniences when you have a perfectly nice and comfortable home that is already filled with the very conveniences you're trying to emulate.

Is it the commune thing? You want the company of hundreds of strangers living in such close quarters to you you can hear their conversations? You're that lonely?

You like dirt? On your clothes, in your hair and sticking to your skin? You like to be claustrophobic? Trying to live as normally as possible in very cramped quarters?

You're a pyromaniac and crave the fire pit?

You like to see what other people look like when they first get up in the morning?

Some people really do it up big. I mean they have so much stuff it was overwhelming to me just trying to imagine getting ready for the trip and storing the stuff when they got back home. There were yard directions for their plot like they were in a neighborhood at home. Name sign placcards and animals and statues of various kinds. I had the feeling some of them expected mail delivery! And more than half of the campers had lines of colorful lights that they strung around their space. I thought that perhaps they were bug deflectors of some kind, but upon asking was told, no, they're just for looks.

Lets think about this. We leave society and conveniences behind to go into the woods to live deliberately. To get back to nature. And we string colorful lights and blare the baseball game on a radio that can be heard around the park. We bring all these gadgets that make camping life easier and more convenient. Fire starters and fancy cooking gear, generators and little refrigerators. We yell at our kids and curse our spouses for not helping with all the extra work camping involves and...

And then, it's night time. There's a chill in the air. The fire is blazing with glorious golds and oranges and reds dancing before my eyes. It crackles companiably. I'm sitting with my loved one in a canvas chair. I lay my head back and look through the massive leaves far above my head to the stars beyond. They twinkle down, as though in some kind of intimate conversation with the fire. I'm sitting there because there's nothing else to do. And suddenly I get it. The perfect moment had to hit me upside the head, but I got it. You go to the woods to force yourself to stay in one small place for more than a few minutes. To slow down. To do nothing more than go about the business of surviving. You strip away all of the things that desensitize you and you sit.

And with everything else stripped away, with your mind occupied only on such basic levels, you slowly quiet down. And the truth of life alights upon you. You know, even if in only that moment, what really matters most. You actually take a deep breath just because it's there. And then another. And you get sleepy. And when you lie down, your body falls into a deep peaceful sleep with the outside air and the breeze in the trees watching over you. Caring for you.

And when you awake, there's another whole day of peace and quiet minds stretching out before you. And food. Did I mention that the food is phenomenal? Maybe just because there's little else to do but eat - the days revolved around preparing and cleaning up food. But there's nothing like a hot dog cooked over an open fire. Or s'mores that are the real, fire smoked deal. Marshmellows that are golden and slightly crunchy on the edges and chocolate that is warm from the fire smooshed between to graham cracker squares that crunch when you bite into them, leaving crumbs that don't have to be cleaned up because you're outside.

Fruit tastes better when you're camping. It's much juicier. Sweeter. Because you pay attention to it. You aren't reading the paper, or making a list or driving, or thinking about what you're going to do next, because you aren't going to be doing much next. So you take a bite. And you're fully aware of that bite, the tingle of flavor hitting your tongue, the juice that trickles down your throat and over your lips. You don't have to worry about it damaging your make up as you don't have any on. You chew. You swallow and feel the sweet coolness pass through your throat, caressing it. And you reach for another bite. And then another. Peaces, nectarines, bananas, grapes, they were all there, all weekend, tempting, delivering, delighting.

So...I have a confession to make. I did go camping, but I didn't really camp. I watched other people camp. In tents. On the ground. But we aren't all born alike and sleeping in a piece of canvas on the ground was just not something I would choose to do. No, I whiled away my weekend in the luxury of a very nice, fully equipped with microwave and DVD player and sound system and shower and queen-sized bed and electricity and stove and oven and kitchen sink - and potty - RV. It was a glorious time.

And while I don't get the whole camping thing, I can't wait until we go again...

Women and Speed (Suzanne Forster)

Pat Potter’s last couple of posts have about been about the heroines in our lives and in our books. In both cases, she asked us to share our favorite heroines, but blogger threw us a curve the first time and wouldn’t let any of us leave comments. The second time, blogger cooperated, but my brain wouldn’t. It went into spin cycle, and though several names came to mind, I couldn’t think of any that stood out as favorites.

Since then, I’ve thought of many. Oprah Winfrey—and Gayle King for being Oprah’s friend. That can’t be easy. Actually, the friendship holds plenty of challenges for both women, as those of us who watch the show learned during the road trip week. They crossed the continental United States together, and the adventure convinced me there is no greater test of compatibility than a road trip. They failed pretty miserably—Oprah likes to be quiet with her thoughts while driving and Gail likes to sing Top Forties songs, off key—but their lifelong friendship seems to have survived and thrived. Maybe the lesson is that tolerance, acceptance, love, and a good sense of humor are more important than compatibility any day.

Others heroines, past and present, who came to mind for their public service were Eleanor Roosevelt and Eunice Shriver. Martha Stewart, for serving her prison term quietly and with more dignity than I would have expected, given the situation. Hillary Clinton and Condalezza Rice. Regardless of how you feel about their politics, it can’t be easy dealing with the men in their lives.

My mom, for sure. She was a tremendous survivor, honest to a fault and very tough, but she was also a woman of deep emotions, who wore her heart on her sleeve. Possibly I loved her sense of humor best. As I mentioned in a book that I dedicated to her, her laughter will always resonate in my heart.

The list goes on, but I’ll save my other favorites for a future blog, except for this very recent entry. Last weekend, I added another woman to my list. Danica Patrick, the Indianapolis 500 race car driver.

I remembered Danica from all the hoopla that surrounded her two years ago when she was the first woman ever to lead Indy. Afterward, when I saw her on the talk show circuit, I actually worried that it might have been some kind of publicity stunt to bring viewers to the event. I haven’t heard much about her since, but I don’t follow the race or the drivers, so that could be why. It was by accident that I tuned in on Sunday, but when I saw that she was driving, I became curious about how she’d been doing.

Clips of her interviews were played prior to and during the race, and I saw her repeatedly in a dot com commercial, so I figured she must be doing all right, except that the interviews were focused on her never having won the race, and she seemed quite apologetic about that—and grateful that there was still some interest in her. Listening, I began to wonder if perhaps it was all about publicity. Maybe Danica Patrick didn’t have the racing chops to go up against the boys.

But after what I saw Sunday, I don’t think it’s about publicity, at least not in the sense of it being a stunt. Danica’s a great story, and I can see why the press would want to exploit the situation, but she can also handle herself. None of those hard-driving boys are slacking off to make her look good. That woman can drive!

At Lap 113 when the race was suddenly stopped because of a downpour, she was in third place, just behind Tony Kanaan and Marco Andretti, the grandson of Mario. When the race started again, over two hours later, she boldly took advantage of a bobble on Marco’s part and moved into second place. Another rainstorm was expected soon, but none of the leaders would risk a pit stop, reasoning the rain would start before they ran out of gas and whoever had first place when the yellow flag was waved would win. They all miscalculated, including Danica.

They were forced to take pit stops or run out of gas, which opened the race up to a new group of leaders, with Dario Franchitti quickly taking first place and holding it. Both Tony Kanaan and Mario Andretti tried to maneuver their way back to the front, but were involved in crashes that took them out of the race. And, okay, I have to admit that I found myself wondering whether recklessness had anything to do with those crashes. I’ll never know, but I do know that Danica didn’t crash. She made it all the way back into the top ten before the rain started, and I have to wonder how far she would have gotten if Mother Nature hadn’t rushed things.

At the risk of repeating myself, that girl can drive. To my way of thinking, Danica Patrick has nothing to apologize for, and I wish the press would stop making her feel as if she does. She was in position to move into the lead when rain started the first time. She’d fought her way to second place on sheer guts, incredible reflexes and smart driving. If her luck had been better, she might have won. If it had been worse, she could have crashed. The point being, she was fearless and she did everything right, and that was all I needed to know. I just hope she knows it.

You go, Danica. Whether or not you ever win the Indy 500 doesn’t matter. All that does matter is that you’re no publicity stunt. You’re the real deal. And that’s enough to put you high on anyone’s list of heroines.

Suz

BRAVE NEW WORLD (Anne Stuart)

I'm about to set sail on a grand adventure. Think of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland -- hey, kids, let's put on a show in the barn!
The kids in this case are Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich, and we're putting on a reality show on the internet.
You see, the three of us hate publishing. Don't get us wrong, we love our publishers, we love our editors, our sales reps and pr people, we love our agents, our readers, we love pretty book covers and seeing our words in print. But someone said recently that publishing isn't a business, it's a casino. And the crap shoot aspects of it take a toll on the soul. (Deliberate rhyme there).
So we decided to do something just for fun, when we're not working on our main projects. Something to bring back that original joy of just doing it for the sheer fun of it.
So the three of us are writing a book on the internet, and people get to join in, to critique chapters, so see it as it progresses. We don't know if it will ever get sold, we don't know if it will ever get finished and we don't care. We're having fun.
It's a brave new world, and you're all welcome to come and play in it.
The website is: www.dogsandgoddesses.com and we'll be glad to have you.
To quote Teddy Roosevelt Brewster in "Arsenic and Old Lace" --
"CHARGE!!!"

Ah, Life Gets In The Way (Patricia Potter)

Many apologies for a delinquency and double posting. As I said in the title, Life Gets in the way, and it did this Saturday. Between a horrendous deadline, weekend guests, an ill mother and a very temperamental AOL, I'm late and this will be short.

The Blogger site seems to have a grudge against me, and last week refused to allow anyone to post to my real and fictional heroine post, so I repeat the challenge this week. Tell me about your favorite heroine, real or fictional.

In the meantime, many good wishes sent to Maggie's daughter on her wedding.

The Joy Of Sorrow (Judith Arnold)

Here’s an interesting word: gag. It can mean “joke.” It can also mean “choke.”
I’ve written a lot of comedies, especially over the past decade. I don’t like to think of my comedies as filled with gags, since the humor in my books usually comes not from funny stuff happening but from the funny way the characters react to the serious, even awful, stuff that happens. Still, a joke is a joke, and I’d like to think my comedies make readers laugh.
But most of my earlier books were heavy emotional dramas of the kind that leave readers gagging—well, choking—on their tears.
Does this make me a gag writer?
I’ve got a book out now, THE MARRIAGE BED, which definitely falls into the heavy-emotional-drama category, and I’ve heard from quite a few readers expressing astonishment that I’ve written such a book. I guess these readers think of me primarily as a comedy writer. One reader wrote of this latest book, “It made me cry.” Fortunately, she went on to add, “In the best possible way.” Readers seemed to enjoy my funny books, but I’ve received more personal notes on THE MARRIAGE BED in the few weeks it’s been out than I’ve received on my last three single-title comedies combined.
Comedy, schmomedy. Readers like to cry.
It’s a whole lot easier to make a reader cry than laugh. Maybe that’s because tears arise from our eyes—right on the surface of our bodies—while laughter arises from somewhere in the vicinity of our diaphragm, deep inside us. Maybe, sadly, it’s because most of us spend our lives on the verge of tears rather than on the verge of laughter. Then, too, a lot of us cry even when we’re happy. I just spent the past weekend awash in tears, watching my son graduate from college. I was proud. I was thrilled. I bawled like a baby.
When we write, we put our characters through hell. That’s the point, of course—put them through hell, and at the end of the story, when they emerge from hell triumphant or at least intact, the reader has something to cheer about. But it’s a lot harder to make people—characters or readers—laugh about hell than cry about it.
The ease in evoking a reader’s tears may explain why more dramatic books than comedies get published. It’s just plain harder to write good comedies. So why do I write them?
One reason is that I can. Not everyone has the ability to find the humor in hell, so those of us who can do it may as well flaunt our particular talent. Another reason is that the world needs more laughter. Hell doesn’t exist only in our books. It’s all around us. Those who survive best are those who can laugh through the worst times, who can celebrate rather than mourn the absurdities of our existence.
But every now and then, a bleak, dark story takes hold of me. In the case of THE MARRIAGE BED, I was visited by the hero and heroine, Bobby DiFranco and Joelle Webber. They barged into my imagination one day and started telling me their story, and I knew I had to write about them. They’d suffered through the indignities of small-town poverty. Bobby had gotten shipped off to Vietnam, where he’d been seriously wounded. Joelle had struggled through an unexpected pregnancy and teenage motherhood. Despite these challenges and setbacks, they’d worked hard and built a decent life for themselves, refusing to acknowledge the shaky foundation of that life until it suddenly collapsed beneath their feet.
I loved Bobby and Joelle. I cared about them. I wept for them—and there wasn’t a damned thing about them that made me laugh. And—as it is when characters take hold of a writer the way Bobby and Joelle took hold of me—I wrote their story.
There’s “gag” and there’s “gag,” and as a writer I like to swing between the two gags. I’ll continue to write books full of jokes, but every now and then I’ll give in to the urge to leave my readers all choked up. Making readers cry, in the best possible way, is mighty satisfying—and a whole lot easier than trying to make them laugh.

Wedding Craziness

I guess it'll settle down soon, but not today. And in a way, that's good. No time to dwell on anything negative--no time to dwell on anything positive either, just no dwelling time, period. Today (Thursday) I have guests to fetch from the airport, a carload or two of stuff to haul over to the wedding site, and the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner.

So to say it's busy around here would be an understatment. Maybe by Sunday I'll have time to post something more entertaining, maybe a full blown wedding recap. But for today, let me just say I think we should return to older methods. Give the girl's father a pony, and you're married. Set his moccassins outside the teepee and you're divorced.

Lots less planning. Lots cheaper too!

Wish us luck.

Maggie

So You Want to be a Writer? (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I've been unpacking this week. Going through boxes and files that have accumulated over a lifetime, sorting things out, throwing away things that I didn't even know I had. And I found some great treasures, too.

Among them were the early scribblings of TTQ. Now I have to tell you, I've always known I was a writer. From the first story I penned at age six, I was hooked. I titled it "It Happened One Night" and it was about a little girl waking up in bed to find an intruder in the house. She went in to wake her mother and the two of them decided not to wake the dad because he wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Instead these two females, the child and her mother, took care of the bad guy themselves (the reader is never quite sure how) and then they go back to bed. It didn't occur to me until recently that, for a six year old girl, that story was pretty dark. And telling, too, I'd say. Wonder how my father felt when he read it???

I also find it kind of cool that I now write suspense novels. This validates my belief that I've always known my purpose, always known who I was and what I was here to do. How many people, at six years of age, begin the career that will fulfill and complete them for the rest of their lives?

Wasting time I didn't have to waste, spending time I needed to spend, I delved further into my early writings. And I'm sorry to say, found that, even as a teenager, I was a dark and lonely soul. This newfound knowledge has kind of been driving me crazy this week. What made me this way? Why wasn't I a happy, naive little kid like everyone else? Is this part of the gift? Part of what makes me a writer? If so, I embrace it. If not, well dang, I want to go back and have do overs and think about swinging on swing sets.

The other thing I was sad to find was that I really wasn't very good. I remember keeping journals, pouring out my heart on the sacred pages, thinking I was creating things that other people would want to read if I'd ever let them. Which I knew I never would. Reading these pages now I wonder why I ever thought I was a writer!

They weren't all bad, though. I thought, today, I'd do what I told me back then I never would. I'd let someone else read them. So here goes. This first piece was written after I'd visited my brother's grave with my parents for the first time.

They stand together - he and she
Quietly holding hands, knowing each others thoughts
Together they look down
Together they remember

Do they think of the creation?
The joy, the wonder, the hopes, the awe?
Does the love that created, comfort?

Do they remember the early years?
The fears, the learning, the watching, the growing?
Do the pictures of smiles bring smiles?

She busies herself with cleaning.
Find a cloth; make it shine
He tidies the grass
Pull the weeds; check the flowers

Together they kneel at the stone
Hurtfully accepting, sharing each others pain
Together they grieve
As together they loved.

And this one, when we sold the home we'd built when I was fourteen:

We're closing your doors for the last time.
Does the key in your lock stab your heart?
It stabs mine.

We've decided it's time, it's necessary, it's smart.
We say its for teh best - yours?, ours?
Is it right?

Will you be good to our memories?
Will you hold them close, keep them sacred?
Will you always known who chose that wall, that fixture, that color?
Or will we fade away - be lost?

We're closing your doors for the last time...

After reading books of this stuff, I started to worry about that young girl. Most people just move, don't they? But not me. I had to make it an emotional production.

I'm happy to report, however, that apparently I did have some light-hearted moments. There was the one about going to the store and buying an ink pen. And about making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There was a 500 word essay on a pebble. And a dissertation about my two poodles being people. And this following doozy, that's so embarrassing I thought I'd pass it along to leave you with a cringe, and the sure proof that you don't have to show any real talent to become what you want to be. Just believe you have it, believe you are what you want to be, and you can become that person. I'm standing here before you, a living testimony to that fact. Just read on, you'll see!

A lollipop's a simple thing if all you do is lick
The most that will concern you is a flavor on a stick

But if you care to look beyond the simple things in life
You'll see that ev'n a lollipop can cause a body strife.

For what m'dear would you reply if a stranger were to say
Excuse me sir, please pardon me, what stained your tongue that way?

And how can you be sure to know the taste that you are buying,
When colors tell your flavor but sometimes the color's lying?

What if you went into a store with but a dime to spare
And found when you got up to the line they charge a quarter there?

And when you try to take a lick but have a need to speak
You'll find that teeth and lollipops cause rattlin' in your cheek.

And once the lollipop gets wet, you'll see without a doubt
You cannot set it down again unless you throw it out.

It sticks to everything in reach including hair and dirt
And if it slips away from you it sticks onto your shirt.

Another hazard you will find is that it's fragile too
If dropped it shatters on the spot no matter what you do.

And if you try to break the rules and chew instead of lick
You can't unstick it from your teeth or get rid of it too quick

So now you know the moral of the story has to be
Always search beyond the guise of pure simplicity.

The Male/Female Brain at the Movies

Much has been written on the differences between how men and women perceive and interpret things. Deborah Tannan told us in her 1990 book You Just Don’t Understand Me that men and women respond to various aspects of life very differently. Men don’t like to ask, for example. Even asking for directions can challenge a man’s sense of self-sufficiency, whereas for women it’s more a practical matter. She’d rather ask than be lost. For men, asking means admitting that he is lost.

Generally, most men don’t love talking about problems, either, beyond sharing just enough information to get the problem fixed, whereas women often want some emotional support when they bring up problems. So, lots of luck, ladies, if you’re discussing that problem with the guy in your life. His brain is programmed to solve the problem, not to listen sympathetically. But hang in there, maybe you can negotiate some of both!

I just had some up-close and personal experience with the famous male-female perception schism as a result of two movies the dh and I saw recently, Fractured and Georgia Rule. They were both excellent, but I almost didn’t see Georgia Rule because of the mixed reviews, mostly bad. The ones I read called the movie dark and twisted, which I found hard to believe given the cast and the clips I’d seen. Later, I realized the reviews were written by men, and I was much confused by the dark and twisted references.

For me, the dark and twisted movie was Fractured. Brilliantly acted by Anthony Hopkins as a pathologically obsessive husband, who methodically plans and quite openly carries out the perfect murder of his wife, who’s been unfaithful to him and is about to leave him. She’s getting ready to tell him the truth when he initiates his chilling plan. Ryan Gosling is the deputy district attorney who’s onto bigger and better things at a fancy private law firm when he’s roped into the case, and can’t get out of it.

Okay, so Fractured deals with the terrifyingly close to perfect murder of an unhappy wife and the near destruction of Gosling, who tries valiantly to solve the crime. It’s riveting from beginning to end. It’s also torturous from beginning to end. I was sweating bullets, praying the good guys won. Hopkins is so diabolically convincing you’re not sure anyone could best him. Ever. And I’m not saying anyone did. Actually, that’s all I’ll say in case some of you intend to catch this mesmerizing film. But, be warned. It’s DARK AND TWISTED.

Georgia Rule is about three generations of women played by Jane Fonda, Felicity Huffman, and Lindsey Lohan, who are bitterly estranged. Huffman plays Fonda’s daughter and Lohan’s mother, and her seriously dysfunctional life becomes the lynch pin that sends daughter Lohan off to spend the summer with rigid, authoritarian grandmother, Fonda. Lohan’s bad girl character shows lots of skin, uses racy language and seduces everything in pants, including a sweet virginal young Mormon guy, who’s promised to another woman. She and Fonda are at odds from the moment she steps foot in Fonda’s domain, a bucolic small town in Idaho.

Only Huffman, when she shows up on the scene with her binge drinking, smoking and undiluted rage toward her mother, manages to outdo Lohan for bad behavior. One starts to wonder how these women went so wrong, especially since Fonda, though religiously rigid, compulsive, and showing signs of OCD, doesn’t seem all that bad. Of course, there’s a dark secret in this family that involves Huffman’s second marriage to a man who is not Lohan’s father, and in order to make my point, I have to reveal that Lohan alludes to sexual abuse. Whether or not it’s true is very much the mystery of the story, and an excellent mystery it is. Beyond that, I will only say that the ending is perfect.

As Allan and I were leaving the movie I thought about the reviews describing Georgia Rule as dark and twisted. I asked him if he agreed, and he said absolutely. He went on to emphasize that it was a much darker movie than Fractured. Darker than Fractured?! Maybe Silence of the Lambs was darker than Fractured. Maybe Nightmare on Elm Street. But Georgia Rule? I was aghast, agape and boggled.

How could this be? That’s when it hit me. Was this that perception thing? Is it possible that some (but not all, perhaps) men find it easier to watch a movie whose plot is the fiendishly clever murder of an unfaithful wife, subsequent cover-up and pathological destruction of the investigator, than one whose plot is three women coming to terms with the deep pain they’ve caused each other because of their choices, which include bad men, and what they must do to eradicate it?

Go figure. I thought Georgia Rule was heartfelt and inspiring. And I darn sure wish more reviews were written by women because I’ll bet lots of women didn’t go see the movie after reading about how dark and twisted it was.

So, how about you? Seen any good movies lately?

Suz

In Memoriam (Anne Stuart)

The world suffered two great losses this week, and I ain't talking Jerry Falwell. In case no one noticed, television is my life, or a great part of it. It was my companion when I was young, it saved my life when I was eighteen and suicidal, it's always been there to feed my fantasies and take me to new places. It's almost as good as books.

The problem with television is that it's out of your control -- there are idiots in Hollywood and New York who did too much coke and haven't got a brain in their collective heads. With a book you always have it. With tv the creeps cancel things right and left.

One of my all time favorites was Cupid, a quirky hour long show with Jeremy Piven as either a real Cupid banished to earth or someone who was delusional. It was sexy, charming, funny, wonderful, and they cancelled it without even showing all the episodes!

Earlier this year it was The Nine. Obviously I like stories, so I happily started watching most of them, and The Nine had a great cast and a great premise. 9 hostages in a bank robbery, and over the course of the season we watched their emotional connections and slowly discovered what really happened during the 36 hours (or whatever) they were held hostage. Oooops, no. Cancelled after about 10 episodes. For all I know they could have had an orgy during that time.

Grrrr.

And now the axe has fallen on two of my favorites. Jericho was a fascinating post-apocalyptic mystery with flawed but believable characters, a disturbing premise, a thoroughly hot Skeet Ulrich, and supporting characters who were both annoying and wonderful. They even answered mysteries in a timely manner, like who Hawkins was and how he got there, and a nice little romance in the making with Heather. But now these poor people are stranded in their little town with the Armies of the Night bearing down on them, and we've abandoned them. Curse those network idiots!

And the world mourns Veronica Mars. Mind you, if they've really put Piz and Veronica together and Logan is in the shadows then it serves them right. (I tivo Veronica Mars for each segment between hiatuses. Hiati? And then watch them straight through, but I'm very wary of what's happening with Piz, who doesn't belong with Veronica. She's an angry, wounded soul, and so is Logan, and they're destined for each other. They'll finally be able to make each other whole. But we'll never know.)

Anyway, as I was saying. Veronica Mars was fast, funny, heartbreaking, romantic, tricky, touching, with fabulous characters, not just Veronica and Logan, but her father, Mac, Dick Casablancas, even poor Sheriff Lamb (who got killed off much too easily IMHO). This was great stuff, and instead we'll be getting hour long reality shows that are paeans to greed. Primetime Bingo, for heaven's sake? That's just wrong.

So I'm in mourning. I've still got Blood Ties and Heroes. And tonight and tomorrow night I'll get to see if Apolo Anton Ohno wins Dancing with the Stars (yeah, I know, I hate reality shows but Apolo is so gorgeous he makes speed-skating sexy).

But in the meantime, let's raise a glass for dear, departed friends.

And I don't mean Jerry Falwell.

The Poem Comes on Little Cat Feet

startled into life like fire

in grievous deity my cat
walks around
he walks around and around
with
electric tail and
push-button
eyes

he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum tree

neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn

if I were all the man
that he is
cat--
if there were men
like this
the world could
begin

he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.

Charles Bukowski

Hear Us Roar (Patricia Potter)

I love the History Channel. I particularly loved it the other night when the had the two hour documentary of Boadicea (PBS spelled it Boudica), the British heroine who led the Celtic tribes against the Romans in 60 a.d.

She has always been one of my favorite historical heroines and my first answer when some critics say my heroines are too adventuresome and brave for their times.

Women have always stepped forward in the annals of history. They were the ones that defended castles when their men were at war. They were the ones who nursed the casualties of wars. They had the quiet bravery when their mates, fathers, brothers went to battle.

I have many heroines through history. There are, of course, Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale. There is the Scottish noblewoman who smuggled Prince Charles from Scotland and there is Mother Teresa in our time.

But Boadicea was the first of the great freedom fighters. While nearly everyone recognizes the names of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, few know the history of Boadicea although for many in succeeding centuries she was the symbol of those fighting against tyranny and injustice.

She took up arms against the Romans after the invading army subjugated and starved her tribe. As queen, she protested the mistreatment and was publicly beaten and her daughters raped by Roman soldiers.

Not a good move by the Romans. Instead of cowing her as intended, she started an insurrection that brought together some 250,000 members of the divisive Celtic tribes, a tremendous feat in itself. She led her ill-equipped army against Roman cities and successfully destroyed a number of them.

As in so many rebellions, a well-trained, superbly equipped army eventually defeated the undisciplined poorly equipped force in one of the bloodiest episodes of early history. No one knows what happened to Boadicea and her warrior daughters. Some say she poisoned herself after the destruction of her army, but no one really knows.

Yet even in defeat, though, her name because a rallying cry for centuries.

Now it has mostly disappeared. Women have never been given the credit they deserve for their roles in history.

But for me, they’ve been the true heroes throughout history. In our own country’s history, they disguised themselves to fight in the American Revolution and again in the Civil War. One of my own female ancestors was a nurse on a Civil War battlefield.

And then, of course, there’s the American west. I’ve just submitted a five book proposal for a western series. It has always been one of my favorite settings because I think the true heroes of the opening of the west were the women who survived unblieveable hardships to bring about civilization.

We are women. We continue to roar!

Tell us about your favorite heroine, either in history or in fiction.

Back to Bach (Lynn Kerstan)

That’s him in the picture–Johann Sebastian Bach–famous for wearing really bad wigs and siring 20 children. Guess he didn’t spend all his time writing music. And back in the day (early 18th Century), he was best known as a gifted organist. No pun intended.

For a musical genius, J. S. was remarkably humble. Unlike, say, Beethoven or Mozart. Not that he lacked a temper. He once got into a sword fight with a member of his orchestra who jumped him after being called a nanny-goat bassoonist. Apparently them be fightin’ words in Leipzig.

But despite composing more than 1000 works, including some of the greatest masterpieces in all of music, Bach insisted that anyone with a little talent who worked as hard as he did could do as well. Not bloody likely.

He knew from rejection though, which is why all authors and teenagers without prom dates should identify with him. Once, when applying to the Elector of Saxony (Augustus the Corpulent) for a position, he submitted the equivalent of an audition tape–a performance of the Kyrie and Gloria from what would eventually become the Mass in B-Minor. This is probably the greatest work for chorus, orchestra, and soloists in the history of the world.

He didn’t get the job.

I’m just back from my third rehearsal this week of the B-Minor, the first with the orchestra. How is it I always wind up standing practically in the middle of the trumpet section? My ears are still ringing. Anyway, there’s a full dress rehearsal tomorrow, followed by performances on Sunday and Monday evenings. I’m already Bached into a corner. This sucker is well over two hours long, not counting an intermission, and most of it is scored for the chorus. We’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

But what a glorious experience it has been. In all the years I’ve sung with choruses, this is the first time any of them has taken on the daunting B-Minor. And now I know why. For one thing, it costs a fortune to mount the production, especially if you bring in the San Diego Symphony to play.

And the music is harrrrrrd. It takes a long time for a non-professional chorus to wrestle it into submission. If not for the miracles of technology, which lets me sit at my computer and sing along with the alto part on cyberbass.com, I’d never come close to learning it at all. I must have stumbled through the "Pleni Sunt Coeli" a hundred times. One thing I know for sure: my neighbors will be glad when this is over.

What’s sad, really, is that Bach himself never got to hear the entire work performed. Nor did he expect to. He lived and worked within the Lutheran tradition, where a Latin Mass would not be welcomed. For him, the B-Minor was a personal offering to God, in thanks for the musical talents given him. Indeed, at the end of his compositions, Bach wrote S.D.G, meaning Soli Deo Gloria. For the Glory of God Alone.

He finished the Mass in the last years of his life, by which time he was all but blind. And he died at age 65, not long after experiencing complications from cataract surgery. Cataract surgery in 1750! Who knew?

Isn’t it strange that so many great composers were afflicted in so many ways? Beethoven went deaf. Mozart died at age 35, coincidentally on my birth date, December 5th. Not the same year, of course. Chopin died at 39. John Lennon . . . well, he died too young as well.

It’s astonishing to me that Bach’s genius was all but buried with him. It took another composer, Felix Mendelssohn, to resurrect his greatest works and introduce them to a welcoming world.

I think, often, how lucky we are to live in a time when music of every kind is so accessible. I even have the B-Minor on my Ipod Shuffle. Yes, I am obsessed with this masterpiece. It makes me happy. Especially the Gloria, which dances and shimmers and shimmies like faeries tipsy on fermented nectar.

Just lately, people walking past me on the beach have been giving me odd looks. Maybe because I can’t help singing along.

Gloria in excelsis! Et in terra, pax!

Cat Update: Lymond has been doing much better. Virtually back to normal. Then again, he’s pulled that on me before. But these last few days, I’m much encouraged.

Apologies

I've had a really really bad week, and I just can't blog today.
Apologies. I'll bounce back, always do, so by next Thursday I should be good to go.
Hugs,
Maggie

Instantaneous Feel Goods (Tara Talor Quinn)

This kid right here is in Las Vegas, celebrating her twenty first birthday with her mama (that would be me) and her grandma and great aunt and another older woman who was a friend of the family and while the four way older than 21 year olds played, she sat at the bar outside of Chippendales and studied - some kind of big and complicated law tome. That was last September. And last Friday, less than nine months later, that same kid walked across the stage at Grady Gammage Auditorium at Arizona State University and received her juris doctorate. She graduated Cum Laude, with highest Pro Bono distinction and a Dean's Award. Seeing that happen, knowing that she has the tools to be okay, to make a great life, felt so good.

I flew to Phoenix for the graduation - and a few days of warmth and sunshine - and then returned to my new little small town - and cold and rain - and found out how quickly we can sink into the doldrums. How easy it is to get sad or depressed, often times due to things completely outside our control. And then I remembered what I always taught that beautiful young woman up there anytime her life's challenges seemed to be too much for her. Stop everything, I'd tell her. Just for a minute if that's all you can spare. And do something that feels good. An instantaneous feel good. They're all around you, I'd tell her. Just pick one.

And so, for the past twenty four hours I've been looking around me. There really are feel goods everywhere. Big ones. Things to be eternally grateful for. The problem is, in some moments, the heart just doesn't have the energy to feel grateful. Or to open up to those big feel goods. Sometimes those big feel goods, like the fact that you have a beautiful, healthy, successful daughter, don't bring great joy. Sometimes they hurt because you have to live too far from them. Sometimes the responsibilities that come with our greatest blessings weigh us down.

That's when the instantaneous feel goods come in. You have to be careful here, only in that for this to work, you have to be certain that the feel goods you pick aren't something that will ultimately feel very bad - like drugs or overuse of alcohol. Or sleep aids. But other than addictive substances, pretty much anything goes - keeping in mind that these feel goods aren't necessarily things you go to every day, only on those days when you're really low. For instance:

Yesterday I had a McDonald's Happy Meal. Okay, not healthy if I did that on a daily basis, but for a time out of time feel good it worked pretty darn good. I even ate a few of the fries. Now normally I don't eat McDonald's except for the occasional bagel at breakfast, but I can remember as a kid, everytime we left on vacation to our cabin in Michigan, the halfway stopping point was at McDonald's in Dundee. Yesterday's hamburger tasted just the same as the ones I had all those years ago.

Or you might try a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Again, not something you can do regularly or you might have a feel bad with a fifty pound weight gain, but one blizzard isn't going to pudge up anyone. And they've got great choices. My current favorite is the Banana Cream Pie without the cream. I haven't had one yet this year, but I intend to. Probably sometime this week. Probably sometime today.

Then there's music. Have you ever noticed how listening to certain music at a notched up volumn can shift your mood? For me 70's music works a lot. The Eagles and Hotel California. Or Helen Reddy and I Don't Know How to Love Him and, of course, I Am Woman. Vicki Lawrence and Alan Parsons Project. I have about forty c.d.'s that are doing the trick right now. I blare them in my car. And in the house as I'm unpacking the unending stacks of boxes. This is different than the music I work to. They're songs that just plain make me feel good. They bring back memories. I relate to them. They speak to the emotions raging through me.

Scents work, too. Right now Lavendar is doing it for me. Don't know why, but I'm sure my psyche does. I just know that I'm burning a lot of Lavendar scented candals. And coming in a close second is Rose. Plebian, perhaps to go for such a standard scent, but hey, it's working!

Here's another instantaneous feel good. The other day I was going through some boxes looking for something in particular, and found a box that hadn't been unpacked in thirty years. This warn and used thing had moved with me more than ten times and never been untaped. It said memorabilia on the label. Who needs that, right? I mean, it's stuff you can never part with, but as long as it's there, why would you possibly have a need to access it? Well, I found out. In that box were the greatest treasures. Irreplaceable treasures. I found a bundle of somewhere between 50 and a hundred letters from my very best friend in the world. Dating back to the time when we were fourteen on through adulthood. Letters where she poured out her deepest heart in a place she found completely safe to do so. Now this in itself was pretty remarkable, but when you consider the fact that this treasured friend was killed in a car accident six years ago, you'll understand what a miracle this really was. Not too long ago her twenty year old, my goddaughter, asked me to tell her more about her mother, to tell her anything I could because she wanted to be as much like her as she could be. I now can give her her mother, first hand. And I have her here, too.

Then there were the letters between my very special friend and I. Dating back to when we were eightteen and in college and in the throes of first love and going steady. And then a year later, when we were separated by a half a country as I finished up my undergrad degree in Arkansas. He'd saved the letters I sent him. I hadn't realized that I also had the ones he sent me. And putting them together, side by side, we were able to see so much. To understand so much. To remember and piece together and to know. What an incredible gift that was. And is. An instantaneous feel good of another kind.

Another feel good - colors. Colors make me feel good. Yesterday I went out to the mall just to see pretty things. Colorful things. And here in my office, though I'm surrounded by stacks and stacks of boxes, I've found some of my colorful and beautiful things and have them in strategic places where they catch my eye as I try to avoid seeing the boxes of work awaiting me.

And then there are pedicures. Oh my word. What an instantaneous feel good those are! To have your feet soaked and then massaged! Luckily there are places all over now - even in my little tiny town - where you can just walk in on a moment's notice and get a forty-five minute pedicure. A small investment of time to treat yourself like the valued woman you are. And you get to have nice looking toes afterward, too! Sometimes, when I indulge in this particular feel good, I pick a wild color of polish - something with attitude, that steps out. Something that carries the feeling out the door and with me into my day. I've been known to have flowers painted on my toes, too. One time I had silver and black lilies. I loved them! For weeks, everytime I looked down, I smiled.

And there are momentary, completely free feel goods, too. Like a Raggedy Doll to hug. Now that feels good. To wrap your arms around her softness and just squeeze, knowing that on that chest you're squeezing against you is this little printed red heart that says "I Love You." Or, if you have a pet, play with it. Even for a second. Taylor has been receiving a lot of attention in the past twenty four hours. So much so, that I've worn her out. She's currently curled up into a ball on my lap sound asleep. And that feels great, too.

If it weren't raining I could take a walk. Feel the fresh air on my skin. Because it is, I think I'll take a drive. Get out. See the world. Refamiliarize myself with it's wonders. Maybe go to Dairy Queen. Or maybe I'll use my brief respite for a game of Spider Solitaire. Or to read a few pages of the book I'm enjoying. I could crochet another row or two of the rose doily I'm making. I could pour a diet coke.

So many choices! So much fun. I'd best get to it. And to the day - and the pages and boxes - ahead. I have no idea where I'll land today, but one thing I do know - I'm going to feel good when I get there!

Mother's Day, the Agony and Ecstasy (Suzanne Forster)

Everyone out there who’s a mom intuitively knows what I mean by the title of today’s blog. Is there any day that has the potential to bring more joy or more heartbreak? I don’t think so. Anniversaries and birthdays are biggies, and it’s hard when we’re forgotten, even for the best of reasons, but there’s nothing quite like a Mother’s Day when the phone doesn’t ring, the card doesn’t show up, or the flowers aren’t delivered—and I would know. I’ve had a few.

In defense of my one and only son, Kenny, let me say that he has great compassion, a good and open heart, and I adore him. But okay, he can be a little preoccupied and forgetful at times, and in the past, those times have included Mom’s Day. When he was a teenager living with his dad, my ex, I used to start coaching myself in advance of Mother’s Day, preparing so I wouldn’t be hurt when the phone didn’t ring.

Didn’t work, of course. I was hurt, and the only thing that eventually did work was to tell him exactly how much. I’ve never been good at suffering in silence. But first I had to get past the urge to unload on him, which would only have made him feel guilty and defensive. Whatever I said had to come from my desire to communicate with him, not from my need to change him—and it had to come straight from the heart, my heart. When we finally did talk, I think he felt my pain, and for the first time, heard it.

So, why does Mother’s Day carry an emotional punch that other special days don’t? I think this poem that was posted by a member of my Yahoo group, says it all. I don’t know who the author is, but her kids are blessed to have her.

Before I was a Mom I never tripped over toys or forgot words to a lullaby. I didn't worry whether or not my plants were poisonous. I never thought about immunization.

Before I was a Mom - I had never been puked on. Pooped on. Chewed on. Peed on.

I had complete control of my mind and my thoughts. I slept all night.

Before I was a Mom I never held down a screaming child so doctors could do tests. Or give shots. I never looked into teary eyes and cried. I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin. I never sat up late hours at night watching a baby sleep.

Before I was a Mom I never held a sleeping baby just because I didn't want to put them down. I never felt my heart break into a million pieces when I couldn't stop the hurt. I never knew that something so small could affect my life so much. I never knew that I could love someone so much.

Before I was a Mom - I didn't know the feeling of having my heart outside my body. I didn't know how special it could feel to feed a hungry baby. I didn't know that bond between a mother and her child. I didn't know that something so small could make me feel so important and happy. I had never known the warmth, the joy, the love, the heartache, the wonderment or the satisfaction of being a Mom.

I didn't know I was capable of feeling so much, before I was a Mom.

Is that true, or what?

So, how was my Mother’s Day this year? Perfect. Was there some agony mixed with the ecstasy? Of course, but not the emotional kind. The agony was actually triggered from a mild case of whiplash. On Saturday, I was in a fender bender on the way home from a meeting of my local RWA chapter, and even though the car barely touched mine, my neck felt the jolt. I’m still a little sore, but healing nicely. The car doesn’t have a scratch.

The ectasy? I got flowers and a phone call from my kid! It actually started late Saturday night with a voice mail message from a man named Art, who was trying to find my home to deliver flowers. Art sounded frustrated, which made me think that Kenny must have been pretty imperative about getting the flowers delivered before Sunday. I didn’t see how I’d get them until Monday, but low and behold, when I opened the door Sunday morning, there was a lovely bouquet of blush pink roses, feathery hot pink daisies, baby’s breath and ferns.

Guess who else is pink? Tickled pink! And okay, yes, relieved.

There were other Mother’s Day surprises. I got a call from my ex, Kenny’s dad, with sincere wishes for a happy day. I wondered as I listened to his message whether he’d decided to bestow good wishes on all of his ex-wives—and I suspect he did because to his credit, he has remained on good terms with each of us—and that’s saying a lot. We are three in number, and he is currently remarried. Some men don’t scare easily, lol.

On impulse, I emailed a Mother’s Day card to my daughter-in-law, telling her how special she is. I don’t do that enough, so it rather surprised me, and it may come as a surprise to her. I hope it doesn’t make her uncomfortable. I felt joy just for having thought of it.

But absolutely the best part of Mother’s Day was realizing that I would have known Kenny loved me even if I hadn’t heard from him. He’s actually getting pretty good about making the people in his life feel loved—and how very grateful I am for that. (But, please, remind me of that next year when I don't hear from him, okay?)

I didn't know I was capable of feeling so much, before I was a Mom.

It’s true.

Suz

My Favorite Year (Anne Stuart)

It was November of 1971. I was twenty-three years old, my father had died the year before, and I'd been living in the Bronx (no thonks), sharing an apartment with three friends and working for the Rockefeller Foundation in Manhattan. I was there for the sole (originally I typed "soul purpose" which is probably more accurate) of supporting my music habit -- I went to the Fillmore East almost every weekend, along with all the other venues, and saw absolutely everyone. But this blog isn't about that time.

I decided it was time to move on. There weren't enough books that I wanted to read, so I chose to buy a car (when I didn't have a driver's license), quit my job and move to our family's tiny summer house in Northern Vermont to write my first book. I had absolutely no doubt it would sell -- with uncharacteristic modesty I figured I could come up with something better than half the gothics I was reading, not as good as half. So I packed up my stuff (including crates and crates of LPs) into the 1964 Dodge station wagon and had my sister and brother-in-law drive me northward and leave me.

Alone.

Not knowing anyone.

A mile from the nearest neighbor.

In the beginning I was mildly creeped out. I slept with the lights on, listening to the radio (there was a good FM radio station our of Canada), and I started to write on the beaten up little manual typewriter with elite type (most typewriters had a larger type, called Pica -- I'm guessing most of you weren't alive back then).

And I wrote. And I wrote. Single spaced, no margins, not every day but almost every day. And I lived a life of complete solitude. I was too chicken to drive into town since I didn't have a license -- I usually walked the two miles -- and I never went further afield (and the town had one general store and only about 500 residents). With three tv channels, one of them in French, a cocker spaniel for company and heat from an old Franklin stove and a kerosene space heater.

And it was glorious. I read. I listened to music. I danced around the house. I felt a zen-like serenity that I haven't felt since.

The book took its time, but when I was about twenty pages from the end (which is more like forty in a normal type and doubled space with margins) I sat down and wrote it straight through, and I've done that with every book ever since. At that point everything is all tumbling together and you're half breathless with it yourself. Best part of writing.

Of course sooner or later life intruded. I met some classically dysfunctional people, got mixed up with the wrong one, and bounced around emotionally for a year before I met my husband.

And then I lived happily ever after, with a few bumps and landmines along the way.

My sister lives in the family house now -- I live about a mile away on twenty acres. And I still love music with a fierce passion.

And that first book I was writing? Reader, I sold it. Sent it to an agent, got a contract in '73 and it was published in 1974 by a branch of Ballantine Books called (wait for it) Beagle Greatgothics. I was just shy of my 26th birthday, and I've been writer ever since. You can find it at www.abebooks.com for anywhere between $59 to $300. Not bad for a book that cost 95 cents.

There are times when I miss that year -- the serenity, the autonomy. I didn't have to do anything for anyone -- it was me and my music and my pets and my writing.

But I don't think I could do it again. Magic is magic, and you can't control it.

But when I'm worried about my children and my husband is being a pain (which is rare, but when he is he does a good job of it) I think about that year and wish I could have it again.

So what was your favorite year? The year you fell in love? When your kids were born? Did you ever have a magic time all to yourself?

Happy Mother's Day

Today we celebrate our moms. And the joys of being a mom. We also treasure the mom we no longer have with us, although her love remains in our hearts.

It's a day for tributes and memories. Tell us a story about your mother, or your experience of being a mother.

All About Hats (Patricia Potter)

I was glued to the television this past weekend and the early part of the week. I couldn’t stop watching the visit of Queen Elizabeth.

It’s not that I’m particularly fond of the monarchy, but I’m fascinated with the royal hats.

After being attached to the television during her visit, I couldn’t help but wonder how many hats she’d brought and how many hat boxes had been required. I counted twelve different hats – all of which matched her suits – but I’m sure there were many more. One for every morning occasion, every noon occasion, every afternoon occasion, etc.

She rather met her match at the Kentucky Derby, the all-time crown event for hats. I love the Kentucky Derby for that very reason. To heck with the horses. I watch the hats.

I suppose it’s one of my small eccentricities.

I don’t wear hats, mainly for the public good, although I immensely enjoy seeing them on other people and whine over their decline in American society. The English, on the other hand, has made millinery into an art form.

Along with many things, I was late in coming to an appreciation of it. Perhaps because to wear hats well, you must be elegant, stylish or, as in the queen’s case, have a great sense of dignity. A pretty, lean face helps. Since I have none of the above I could only watch with wistful appreciation as others wore magnificent hats with such aplomb.

I didn’t really mind that much until I failed the hat test some twenty or more years ago. I attended the Masters Golf Tournament as a guest of a newspaper executive. Also invited was another woman I had never met. We were to share a room.

We talked on the phone, and since I was arriving late she said she would meet me inside the gates and give me a key to the room. She would be the person in a big hat with a yellow ribbon. I said okay. I should have said I would be the one person there without a hat.

But I didn’t know that at the time. I’d never even watched the Masters before. When I arrived, every woman – with the one exception of yours truly – wore a hat, thirty percent of which had a yellow ribbon.

I spent the entire day asking every third woman if she was Sarah as other people watched golf. There were lots of Sarahs with big hats and a yellow ribbon, but none was MY Sarah. We finally met that night at the hotel room. I was sunburned from my hatless state. My hair stood out in ten different directions from the wind.

Sarah was elegant, stylish with a pretty, lean face . . .

I felt like the redheaded child at the family reunion (now how many of you out there has ever heard of that southern expression?). It’s not a compliment.

We became friends, though, even best friends for many years. We still keep in touch to this day. I taught her how to eat pizza at eight in the morning, a skill she has since perfected, and she tried to teach me how to wear a hat, a skill I neverperfected.

Hats have since mostly disappeared from American society except at some churches where hats are considered a crowning glory and, of course, the Kentucky Derby. Ever hopeful, I do buy hats – an Australian outback hat and a terrific black and white checked Scottish tam in New Orleans – but I still don’t wear them well. I fear they look as silly as they sound.

Still, I have always lusted after elegant hats and being able to wear them well. On my list of lusting, it’s rather down on the list but there's still that wistful part of me that looks at Queen Elizabeth and envies her not for her riches or position or jewels, but for her hats.

Cave Woman (Lynn Kerstan)

In the human body, there are approximately 639 skeletal muscles. At the moment, save only those muscles north of the nape and jawline, all of mine are hurting.

I have a love-hate relationship with spring. And this phase is firmly in the "hate" sector. It’s the time when, like a hibernating bear, I must come forth from my winter cave–winter being a relative term here in Southern California–and face the ugly truth.

The cave, I should explain, is what I live in during the frigid (below 63 degrees) weather. That means a wardrobe of soft, elastic-waisted fleece or velour. Cuddly chenille sweaters. Everything oversized, to allow for layering over velvety turtlenecks. Of my flesh, only hands and head are ever visible from November through April.

Then comes the day when I have to dig out the wanton spring and summer clothes, with their skimpy fabrics and form-revealing lines. The day when I realize, as I do every year, that they don’t fit.

Bears fatten up in autumn and emerge from their caves sleek and hungry. But caves of fleece, I’m sorry to say, hide a multitude of sins. Not bad sins. Well, not many. There was the speaking engagement at a November conference in Calgary, where we were stuffed like Thanksgiving turkeys. The Search for San Diego’s Best Onion Rings at the Novelists, Inc. Conference in March. A few lunches and dinners with friends.

But mostly, I adhere to a version of the South Beach Diet, with lots of protein, vegetables, and practically no processed food or sweets. My fidelity is what keeps me from gaining five pounds a month, which is what my greedy genes keep trying to do. The New York Times recently reported the results of a long, complex medical study. Apparently the tendency to gain and maintain weight (even when dieting) is primarily a genetic phenomenon.

No kidding, Sherlock. I could have told you that in a five-minute phone call. My parents were fairly normal, if taller than most folks of their time. My sister is a brown-eyed sylph. I’m un-tall, blue-eyed, pudgy from birth, and probably a throwback to a grandmother who died before I was born. Sophie Kerstan was a singer and a writer, like me, and looking at her pictures, I can see myself.

My too, too solid flesh is clearly programmed to settle at a weight about 30 pounds higher than I have spent a lifetime striving to achieve. And I did achieve it, for a time. Being positively slender required a diet of 600 calories a day for a year to lose excess weight and 800 calories to maintain the goal weight. But after a few years, I couldn’t sustain the diet. And with the 801st calorie, the weight started piling back on.

Then, with age, came the inevitable triumph of gravity over flesh. My upper arms were the first to surrender. Let’s just say that if I fell from the top of a tall tree and spread my arms in the manner of a flying squirrel, I could count on a soft landing. And this is the season of short sleeves, which are forever banned from my wardrobe. There’s not exactly a law against it, but in most states, I no longer have the right to bare arms.

The other sad truth is that in winter, except for walking 10-15 miles a week, I exercise not at all. Which is why I am a solid mass of pain tonight. Yesterday evening, I went back to my high-intensity water aerobics class for the first time since October. I’ve tried since then, but unless six people show up, the class is cancelled. Apparently I’m not the only hibernating bear in Coronado. Last night, though, eleven people flailed away in the water, so I have hope for tomorrow night and the weeks and months to come.

In fact, as an act of faith, I went looking for a new cover-up to wear over my bathing suit and, after the post-class shower, over my undies. That’s so I can walk to and from the Aquatics Center, adding to my exercise routine without looking, as I currently do in my ratty fleece robe, like the Bag Lady of Coronado.

And I found just the thing. Well, sort of. High-necked, long sleeved, hem brushing my toesies, it’s a cotton fantasy in an eccentric black-and-white pattern. And on sale. There were two in my size, so I bought them both. Meaning that for the next couple of years, I’ll be hoofing to the pool looking like a mutant zebra.

Oh, well. I’m healthy and generally happy. And I’ve always longed to be eccentric. Now’s my chance!

Blog Update: If you came looking for Patricia Potter’s Friday post, try again tomorrow. Saturdays work better for her schedule, so she and I have switched days.

Cat Update: Lymond is currently resisting all efforts to add fiber to his diet. Rejected the vet-recommended pumpkin. Didn’t eat a bite of tonight’s favorite-canned-food supper because I stirred in the barest whisper of bran. But he’s been walking a little better the last couple of days and is, as ever, very sweet.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar! Maggie Shayne

It's going to be a happy type post today. Spring has sprung, and my new home (Serenity) and I are showering each other in surprises. Every day, more flowers blossom. I have tulips and daffodils and mini-hyacinth everywhere. And I didn't have to do any of the work! They came with the place! Like an unexpected bonus prize just for me.
So I'm giving some back to the place to thank it for the gorgeous spring surprises. I started by refreshing the shredded bark around all the flower beds with fresh, pretty, red tinted stuff. I've put twenty bags of it down so far "All By Myself" (that phrase is going to be a recurring theme for me, and for a lot of women on their own for the first time. It's empowering. Visualize me cheering with a fist in the air everytime I say it.) I'm going to need at least ten more bags. I spent a lot of time removing stray weeds and trimming back old growth from last year, too.

Then I graced the flower beds with some of my indoor-outdoor statues. They didn't all make the trip here with me, but most did. I have a pair of raptors--one's a hawk and the other a falcon, I believe--standing watch in one flower bed. A pair of Goddesses in another. I bought some gnomes and a friendly turtle for a third spot. The flowers seem to love and welcome every one of them.

There's a flagpole in the back yard, with tulips and hyacinth sprouting up around its base. It's ready and waiting for a flag to adorn it. I wanted to find just the right flag, maybe one with an environmental, love the earth image or a triple moon symbol or something like that. But I've searched all over online and have yet to find anything just right. If anyone knows where to buy cool flags like that, let me know, please. I'm sure some of the Pagan/Wicccan/new age shops have them, but all I can find are little prayer flags, and banners meant to hang vertically instead of horizontally. It can be two by three or three by five, I think. I'll keep looking. I NEED a flag for that pole.

There's a spot within the deck to plant stuff, but it was mostly weeds and rocks when I arrived here. The former owner, though, had a mulch pile cooking outside, hidden within a tarp. All winter I've been wondering why that tarp was there, and what was in it and why it was too heavy to move, but I never got around to unfolding it to look. Rich, black mulch, ready to use. Another surprise! So I hauled several wheelbarrows full of the stuff around to that bed in the deck and filled it, All By Myself. Then I planted tomatoes, strawberries, and herbs in the bed. That biggest plant on the right is Rosemary, my favorite herb. There was already mint growing there, so I left that. I love mint. I added my red mulch, and put a little fence around it to keep Sally (the great Dane) out. Usually, even the smallest obstacle is enough to disuade her from stepping over. But the very next morning, she was lying in there and pawing at my strawberries. That's why I had to add to the barrier by stringing some twine and yarn across the front of the patch. She hasn't bothered since, and I hope she learns not to get in there so I can take the twine down. It's not exactly pleasing to the eye.

I did some other things I'm pretty proud of. First, I had to mow the lawn. The riding lawn mower I bought (used) last fall had been put up in the shed all winter. I'd only used it twice. I got it out, filled it with gas, checked the oil. It was very low on oil. I had to make a few calls to find out what sort of oil it might take, and then I added that. I got it running. All By Myself. But then I began mowing, and found the tires like to spin and spin, especially on hills. I did a little investigating and learned this is a common trait among this particular Sears Craftsman mower. My son in law said he had to put chains on his. So off I trekked to the tractor supply store, where I purchased a set of chains for the mower. I had the clerk explain how they went on, and then I went home and proceeded to put them on the tractor, All By Myself. And then I mowed the entire lawn, which is HUGE. Also, All By Myself.

I'm pretty pleased with my progress. I've never been into gardening or flowers before, except for a few patches of herbs here and there. This year I'm going full throttle, and so far, it's looking good. Best of all, though, is that when I look at the beauty around me, I feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. I love this place, and I'm going to be as good to it as it has been and will continue to be, to me. I've ordered two gorgeous, solar powered fountains for the flower beds from Solutions. I hope they arrive soon!

I love doing things all by myself. It makes me feel invincible. (And I am! And so are you!) We are women, hear us roar!

Don't forget to post sources for flags in the comments section for me if you know of any. I also need to find a source for a pretty sign for the lawn where I can post my home's name, Serenity, with pride. So suggestions on that are welcome as well. And tell me about your own springtime adventures!

Maggie

Achy Breaky Back - or - The Grass Isn't Greener on the Other Side (Tara Taylor Quinn)

And there you have it - I'm all over the place and undecided. That's it for me this week. Constantly moving and doing - averaging about four hours of sleep a night - and scattered. Yesterday I slowed down at one point to answer the phone and while I talked, was looking around at what I was doing and realized I had six different projects going all in various stages of completion. This takes multi-tasking to a whole new level.

But for now it's what I've got so here goes. The world of TTQ. The scary, scattered mind of TTQ is all I have to share with you this morning.

I'll start with my back. It hurts. I hurt it. My toe told it, 'just wait, she's not going to care or do anything for you and she sure isn't going to let you slow her down.' My back said, 'just wait and see what I can do to her.' My toe said, 'oh yeah, look at me. More than two weeks down the road and I'm no better because she won't slow down and put me up. Even for an hour.' My back glanced down and was a little intimidated. But it didn't stop trying to do me in. I didn't stop either. Yesterday, with a ThermaCare heating belt strapped to my lower back I moved mountains. Literally. Box mountains. I mean I moved BOXES. Bigger than wardrobe size - completely full boxes. I did it all by myself. I stacked two of them and they took up floor to ceiling in the room. And yeah, I got the one on top of the other. My mother told me once that it's not a matter of muscle, it's a matter of brain power and she was right. I stood right there, determined to do what I could see would be the only way to fit things in. I tried to envision myself just heaving that sucker up there, regardless of the fact that it comes to my shoulders and weighs as much as I do. And then it struck me - a slide. I grabbed a bedrail that happened to be handy because I'd just put it in a small slot of space I'd found for it, I tilted it at just the right angle on box one. Used all my weight - and my back - to push box two into place, and I heaved. That sweet box slid right up and there it was, in five minutes or less. Box in place. And that wasn't all. I lifted - yep really lifted, no tricks - full boxes of books. Made a stack that started on the floor. It grew over my head. And when I could no longer reach, I found a small hard thing I could use for a step and grabbing another box, climbed up that step, bent my legs and lifted. I have a stack of boxed books that goes all the way to the ceiling, too. I moved a treadmill. Free weights. A mattress - twice (because I'm scattered). The wing chair I moved three times - having to lift it and turn it to fit through two different doorways. I moved three closets full of clothes - and organzied them, too. My back isn't happy.

I have my desktop computer back. Finally. After six long weeks of drought. I have my settings. My music. My big, kindly lit, screen. My speed. It's a bit different. It's been touched since I was last on it. There was an e-mail folder missing that almost broke my heart. Except that my mom told me once that it didn't take muscle, it took brains and I figured out how to go find that deleted folder and bring it back. It's right where it was when I left it. Completely full of years worth of e-mails that speak of a lifetime of loving. And the promise of a future of loving. I have my address book. My contacts! I have my files. As I sit here, I am complete. For one scattered moment anyway.

Here's a discovery. It's harder to move into a small space than it is to move into a bigger one. Oh, there are the obvious advantages to small - less space to travel with heavy objects. But you have to move those objects eight times as many times. First you just have to get everything in somehow. Then you have to figure out what might go where. Then you have to move what's currently, erroneously in that spot. Then you have to move what's in the spot where you're going to move the thing that was in the original spot. And this doesn't end. Unless, like my mother says, you use brains not muscle. But, alas, I didn't do that. I finally got one room done. And then proceeded to fill up the cleared space with things from another room that was packed to the hilt. So...progress report...the kitchen is done. And looks beautiful. Small, needs new flooring (and counters and walls and cupboards and...) but beautiful. Did I mention this is just an interim stop? One bedroom is done. The living area is almost done. It was done but then I undid it and it's now sporting boxes again. I'm thinking that might be the new fashion. And hey, there's a BEAUTIFUL box room. Floor to ceiling, this room is packed with all non-essentials. And there's a gorgeous, foot and a half wide path from the door to the closet where I have to keep my pants and dress clothes because - you might have guessed - the closets are really small and my clothes didn't fit. I have shirts and skirts in one closet. Pants and dress clothes in another, and sweaters in another. We won't discuss purses and shoes. Mostly because they aren't unpacked yet.

And on to another thing weighing on my mind (since I don't have muscle.) Kind of a taboo subject, but I'm not actually talking about the subject, just people's misuse of it. And that is religion. Any religion. I've belonged to several different faiths during my life (getting the scattered theme yet?) I'm not here to talk about any of them, or any spiritual beliefs, either. Here's what's irking me. People who use their religion as an excuse to critisize someone else, yet they don't seem to find a problem with walking away from it to hurt someone else. I saw this happen yesterday and it's been bugging me ever since. A woman used the fact that she'd raised her kids in a particular faith as a reason to allow those kids look down their noses at and not associate with someone who wasn't following that faith's edicts, and yet, this same mother turned around and let those same kids use the 'f' word and other demeaning slang to the cut off person. I'm just saying, I don't think religion should be an excuse for a closed mind or a closed heart. And most particularly not if the mind and heart don't follow the edicts of the religion they're using to cut someone out. My achy breaky heart goes out to the person who was the recipient of yesterday's misplaced 'religious' action.

Tomorrow I get to fly home to Phoenix. I love Phoenix. I loved my life there. I love the desert and the blue skies and sunshine. The warmth. I love my mother who lives there. And my entire self is wrapped around my very special daughter who also lives there. On Friday she graduates from law school. I can hardly believe it. It scares me to death to think of the life she has ahead of her. She's chosen an incredibly difficult field. It needs her. She's up to it. I am fully confident that she's going to be so good for this world. She's going to make a difference. And I'm petrified. And sad that the little girl will be so completely changed. My biggest prayer is that she follows her heart. Always. And that she never lose that little girl. That she remembers to take her on play dates. Or just roll with her in the grass.

Ah, grass. Now here's something else that's played a part in my psyche this past week. Here I am, misplaced, out of my element, in a world that I do not relate to. Yeah, you bet the grass is greener on the other side. Or is it? The other side is Phoenix. And it's a desert. Desert's are brown. I'm used to the brown. Don't get me wrong, I find great beauty in Phoenix's browns. And the myriad of deep and vibrant colors of the desert plants in bloom. But yesterday as I was driving down this long country road (something I have to do to get anywhere from here) I notice that there's all this green around me. I mean, I had to blink and really look. There was so much green, in so many shades, the color actually managed to capture my entire focus. Not just my mental focus, but my spiritual and emotional focus, too. It's beauty was breathtaking. Alluring. Peaceful and exciting all at once.

So...all in all...scattered isn't so bad this week. And I'm here to tell you that sometimes, the grass is greener on this side.

My Next Life as a Cat (Suzanne Forster)

I’ve always thought reincarnation had real possibilities as far as Hereafters go. I just wish we had some choice about when, were, and how we came back. If we did, I would definitely spend at least one lifetime as a cat. And I wouldn’t mind having me as my owner, either, although I think that’s probably stretching the rules.

My profoundly spoiled tabby, Mandy, likes to lounge on the top floor of her cat tree and watch me do housework while she yawns, seemingly annoyed at having the quiet disturbed. She refrains from critiquing, but her expression says it all. Are you really going to sweep up all those goodies from the kitchen floor? She snoozes during the day while I write the books that pay for her cat food, and she prowls at night when I’m trying to sleep so I’ll have enough energy to write and buy cat food the next day. When it comes time to clean her cat tree, she sits and watches with great interest, probably wondering why I’m bothering when we both know she’s a fur factory and is just going to load it up again.

Cats have it good. Better than good. I came across a definition of living abundantly the other day and immediately thought of Mandy. Living abundantly, according to Marilyn vos Savant of “Ask Marilyn” fame, is “having a happy marriage or long-term romance, a loving family, work that is enjoyable and productive, and not desiring any material goods that you don’t have.”

Mandy’s fixed, so I think the marriage and romance part are out for her, but the rest fits her to a tee. Material goods are totally immaterial to her. And she’s easily pleased, too. The smallest things thrill the socks off her. A moth flittering around makes her salivate with pleasure. A whiff of real tuna evokes a throaty cry of anticipation. She loves the sounds that emanate from the TV when Animal Planet is on. She’s often kept me company while the Meerkats are doing their thing.

She has few inhibitions. She licks things most of us would never lick, even if we could reach them. And a few things we probably would, lol. Pooping and peeing in public are fine with her, and she’s always interested in my bathroom time. She particularly loves to watch the toilet being flushed, no matter what’s in it.

The loving family part is a slam dunk in this house. She gets love and affection whenever she wants it. And she’s not at all shy about asking. She jumps up in my lap whenever the notion strikes her, and always expects to be welcomed. She rubs up against my legs when I’m trying to negotiate the basement stairs, loaded down with grocery bags and blinded by sunglasses sliding down my nose. Her greatest love is to balance her front paws on my stomach and knead away as if she were baking bread. Her timing isn’t great, though. She invariably gets me right after I’ve had a meal and am trying to nap and digest.

And speaking of food, she never has to fix her own. Fresh stuff is put out twice a day like magic. Where does she think it comes from? The cat food fairy? She doesn’t seem to care, as long as it’s there. That’s the true beauty of being a cat. No anticipatory worry. She doesn’t give a thought to the future, as far as I can tell. She expects everything to be the same from one day to the next, and only frets if it isn’t. Think of the wear and tear that would save your nervous system. Talk about stress-reduction. My cortisol levels would finally be in the normal range.

I’m really surprised cats don’t live longer. Like, forever.

Another plus. No decisions, except where to sleep at any particular time or which catbox to use. She doesn’t have to worry about rising gas prices or falling real estate values. And despite Marilyn von Savant’s emphasis on productive work, the lack of it doesn’t seem to bother Mandy a bit, unless you call sitting in the empty bath tub and waiting for silver fish to come up the drain, work. She never has to worry about missing deadlines, revisions or book sales. Now, that I envy.

She doesn’t need expensive vacations or travel to exotic foreign lands, either. Her idea of a big adventure is exploring the garage. And one more point about food, which is a vital part of her existence—she requires little to no variety. She’s perfectly happy with the same thing twice a day, every day. The occasional treats are more my idea than hers, although she does scarf those tuna snacks.

She also likes to hide when strangers show up or things are the least bit stressful around our house. She scoots under the bed or heads for her secret spot in the den until everything’s copacetic again. Smart cat. I’d love to have a secret spot where I could hide and take a nap and have everything running smoothly when I reappeared.

So, yes, I’d love to come back as a cat. I might skip the fur balls, but other than that, cats have it knocked. They’re my new role models for abundant living. In fact, I think I’m ready for a nap right now. Some practice for my next life couldn’t hurt, could it? Maybe when I wake up, the human food fairy will have something ready for me. Hey, don’t laugh, if it works for Mandy…

Suz

P.S. I really wanted to post about how pleased I am that Paris Hilton is doing jail time, but I thought that would be too controversial. So, here I go, anyway. I don’t know Paris personally, of course, and have nothing against her. She may well have good intentions and a good heart. I suspect she does, but from my vantage point, she’s been a reliably bad role model for today’s impressionable teens, and I’m a big believer in personal accountability. I think kids need to know that no one’s above the law, and there are consequences for their actions. We all need to know that, no matter what our age, and Paris is now, finally, being held accountable for having driven three different times—and cited twice—while her license was suspended for DUI. Maybe she’ll be more careful next time about violating laws that were put in place to protect the safety of all citizens. Maybe we all will. That would be good.

Lost Blog and Quilts (Anne Stuart)

Well, I lost my blog in cyberspace (is that anything like the dog ate my homework?). And I've got too much to do to recreate it (insanity is imprending).

So just a brief commercial:

Go to Brenda Novak's auction for Juvenile Diabetes, at her website:

http://www.brendanovak.com/auction_index.php

Lots of fabulous goodies, including having some of the best agents and editors and writers in this business reading your work and giving you advice, not to mention Coach purses, vacations, plasma tvs, hand made jewelry, afghans, sweaters and quilts.

My offerings are a machine-pieced, machine-quilted quilt entitled Envy made with Japanese style fabrics. It's about 3 by 5 ft, just the right size to curl up under while you're reading ICE BLUE (one small plug for mankind).

We're also giving away a coveted ARC of THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES, by Jennifer Crusie, Eileen Dreyer and Anne Stuart -- be the first on your block to own it (it doesn't come out until July).

And the there's the quilt. I'm not a perfect quilter but it's full of color and life, and the bids

are already up to $180. I'm so proud.

Happy bidding and enjoy helping a good cause.

Spring into May

For the Scholars
The name for the month of 'May' has been believed to derive from 'Maia',
who was revered as the Roman 'Goddess of Springtime, of Growth and
Increase', and the mother of 'Mercury', the winged messenger of the Gods.
Yet this is disputed as before these deities featured in mythology the name
'Maius' or 'Magius', taken from the root 'Mag', meaning the 'Growing month'
or 'Shooting month' was used.
May Mystical World Wide Web

For the Lovers
The month of May was come, when every lusty heart beginneth to
blossom, and to bring forth fruit; for like as herbs and trees bring
forth fruit and flourish in May, in likewise every lusty heart that is
in any manner a lover, springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds.
For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May.
- Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur

For the Eeyores
Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping
their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.
- Dorothy Parker

And the StoryBroads are Celebrating
Patricia Potter's Romantic Times K.I.S.S. Award for the best historical romance hero of 2006. Without question, Lachlan McLean (Beloved Stranger) is utterly luscious!

The Inspiration of Strangers (Lynn Kerstan)

Writers have no excuse for being bored. There’s always research to be done, a scene to be imagined, snappy dialogue to be thought up. People sharing a long line at the bank with me would be astonished at some of the things running through my mind.

I’ve also trained myself to ask, at times of nearly terminal tedium–like waiting in the left-turn lane through an endless cycle of light changes–this question: "What is here, right now, to look at closely and absorb for future reference?"

On Tuesday, inspiration dropped into my lap. Nothing specific to my book, alas. Only the most important thing of all . . . a renewed awareness of the complexity of human nature and the surprises that lurk inside of everyone we encounter.

I needed a haircut. Bad. And a bad haircut is what I’d be getting at The Chop Shop. That’s not the salon’s real name, but it might as well have been. The price is right, though, and since my former hairdresser transformed herself into a surgical nurse, I’ve lacked the incentive to seek out another miracle worker.

Turned out both the Chop Shop people I’d dealt with before were on vacation. How about the new guy? Oh, well. What did I care? So the next morning, I struggled through rain-crazed traffic to get there on time, only to be kept waiting 45 minutes.

There were four people in the salon: me, the bored manicurist leafing through a magazine, the other customer, and William. Rich mahogany skin, well over six feet tall, well built, head shaved, he looked like the ex-Marine he turned out to be. He had the low, soft, honeyed voice of Luther Vandross and, he said, thirty years’ of experience cutting hair. What was he doing at the Chop Shop?!

I’d guess his age at 50ish, but he appeared younger. And I had to admit the flamboyant woman he’d been styling, apparently a long-time customer, looked really good when he was done with her. So I settled in the chair and started to tell him what I wanted. He didn’t seem interested. From there, the experience slid into the surreal.

With scissors in one hand and comb in the other, he began lifting bits and pieces of my hair, top and back and front and bottom, and speaking to it. Murmuring, really. I couldn’t make out the words. Until he said, "Yes, it’s talking to me now. I hear it. That’s good. That’s right. It’s telling me what it needs."

Oh, dear.

This went on for several minutes, and then he began to cut. And talk to me, between phone calls. I heard him tell one client he couldn’t see her on Wednesday afternoons because of Sunday School Class. With another caller, it sounded to me that he was selling drugs. Turned out she lives in Mexico and needed him to secure the specific color products she preferred.

An hour and a half later, after a lot more hair care than I wanted and a much higher price than I’d expected, I left with a good haircut. Of course, with the rain, the styling he gave me didn’t make it all the way to the car. Bearing a strong resemblance to a drenched ferret, I went on about my errands.

And smiled for most of the day, because I’d encountered an odd, solid, strong, gentle, self-assured man with just enough weirdness about him to be fascinating. Not much chance he’ll stay long at the Chop Shop, but I have his cell phone number to make my next appointment wherever he shows up. And in some form or another, I expect he’ll also show up in one of my books.

My second excellent encounter occurred in the checkout line at a humongous grocery store. The man toting up my club soda, eggs, pork chops, and salad makings looked something like presidential press secretary Tony Snow. It was near the end of his shift, and he seemed tired, but he was clearly the go-to guy. People kept coming to him with questions and problems, which he cheerfully dealt with. I was impressed.

Minutes later, I was awed.

Here’s what happened. A rag-tag couple whose last bath could not have been recent were pushing an empty grocery cart into the store. When they saw him, wide grins split their faces. Neither had much to show in the way of teeth.

The woman, probably in her seventies, broke away from her companion and stumbled up to "Tony" with open arms. Moving quickly from behind the counter, he greeted her by name and wrapped her in a warm, tight hug.

She clung to him as he exchanged friendly words with her companion, acting as if his two favorite people in the world had stopped by for a visit. Finally, as they moved on, the customer behind me said that he saw them on the streets all the time and asked "Tony" if he knew them.

"Just from them coming into the store," he said, speedily bagging my groceries. "They shop here."

I don’t expect many people would have willingly embraced that old, derelict woman and made her feel so special. It reminded me of St. Francis of Assisi embracing and kissing the leper. And I was reminded how greatness can manifest itself in small ways at unexpected times . . . like in a grocery line.

The lessons of Tuesday will remain with me. And as I create secondary characters to populate my stories, however insignificant the roles they play, I must never take any of them for granted. All people, even imaginary ones, are unique and special.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Patricia Potter)

The last seven days have been a combination of the good, the bad and the ugly. Kinda going from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The good first. Always the good first. It makes the bad well . . . not quite so bad.

I spent four excellent days at the Romantic Times conference, though two of those four were mostly spent on planes. But that was good as well. Since I was flying from Memphis to Atlanta to Houston with a three-hour layover, I had plenty of time to read over my work in progress without disruption. That’s when I can toy with words. It’s my favorite part of writing.

On arrival I found my partner in crime (Tara Taylor Quinn). I arrived just in time to participate in a workshop she was moderating on romantic suspense. As always it was enlightening. It’s fascinating to hear how others write. Both Tara and I are seat of the pants writers. Put a blank page in front of us and let us go. No real synopsis. No chapter by chapter outline. No story arc. No hero’s journey. It’s all instinct.

That’s good and bad. It’s more fun, since you too have no idea where the characters are going next, but you also paint yourself in more corners, and editors always say, “what’s this? Nothing like what you said it was going to be.”

I saw other friends as well, and then came the highlight for me. I received the Romantic Times KISS (Knight in Shining Silver Award) for best Historical hero of the year. It’s an award I treasure, and especially for Lachlan (Beloved Stranger) who is one of my all-time favorite heroes. A three-hour book fair and a great dinner with Tara and two other friends ended the weekend in grand style.

Landed home Sunday. Full of excitement about finishing the book. A hundred pages left, but they’re in my head now. The characters have taken flight.

Life was good.

Until I took my mother to a clinic Monday about unworkable knees. After waiting several hours, an unsympathetic doctor basically said, well, what do you want me to do about it? The bad news: her knees are as bad as any could be. The good news: not to worry because they're so bad, they can’t get any worse. Take Tylenol.

Okay. Lots of time to work on Tueday.

Got up Tuesday morning, went upstairs to my office, promptly tripped over one of my Aussies (Australian Shepherds) and fell. Hard. I lay there for a moment, hurting, trying to take stock of all my limbs and and determine whether they functioned or not while three dogs licked my face in sympathy. Verdict: sore everywhere but relatively intact.

It wasn’t until the throbbing in my big toe turned to real agony, and the toe swelled to a size impossible to get in a shoe, that I realized, hey, I didn’t escape unscathed. The bruises were bad, but the toe really hurt. Still I took laundry over to mother's, only to crawl back into the house.

After a miserable night, I persuaded myself to go to a doctor. Again stayed several hours. Had x-rays. Yes indeed, I had a broken toe. Couldn't do anything about it, though. Stay off it. Bind the big toe to the little toe. Take aspirin.

It hurts. It throbs. I cannot walk. Hobble a little, maybe, but that's about it. Since I live without other humans in the house, and I have a mother in a nursing home to visit and dogs to walk, this is not a good thing. There seems little to do but grin (or grimace) and bear it, unless someone out there tells me there’s a miraculous cure.

It’s also embarrassing. There’‘s nothing romantic about a broken toe. It’s very hard to attract sympathy. Instead, you get, “how in the heck did you do THAT!”

I also have new appreciation for Tara who suffered through RT with a broken small toe. And she wore heels. All day. At the moment, I have no idea how she did that.

I, on the other hand, am a wimp, as far from one of my stoic heroines as anyone can be.

Downed by a toe. How embarrassingly gauche.

But there it is. It's Thursday night, and throbbing as the toe is, I’m going to retire – very, very carefully watching my dogs for sudden moves – and pamper myself with an ice pack and glass of wine.

My dauntless heroine, who would sneer at a broken toe, will have to wait until tomorrow to save her hero.

What Burns My Cookies, Maggie Shayne

Today I'm going to gripe a little about a pet peave of mine.

I'm a fairly regular viewer of NBC's TODAY SHOW. And with Meredith as a co-host, you would really think they'd knock this crap off already, but so far, they haven't. You see, the TODAY SHOW often has fashion consultants, makeup artists, hair stylists, and the like, in to show us the hot looks for any given season. They have models, often ordinary everyday women, wearing the hot new colors and styles, getting makeovers, and showing us how we can look cool ourselves.

But it never fails. Every single time they do one of these segments, the "expert" of the day qualfies the styles by telling us which ones are "age appropriate."

Tell it to Sigourney Weaver.


I detest that term, "age appropriate." The fun, flirty, bold colors and prints, the shorter flouncier skirts, the more figure hugging styles are recommended for the 20-something crowd, while the more tame, longer, lifeless, dull fashions are recommended for women "of a certain age."


Tell it to Sandra Bullock.

Who the heck are these experts to tell us to dress (or act) our age? I do not hesitate to say I look better in a lot of the "young" styles than most women half my age. I work hard to look good, and I enjoy wearing young, flouncy, colorful styles. And what earthly high do these experts get from trying to put women over thirty-something into a box? It's like they want us to shut up, dress down, be unobtrusive, and not draw any attention away from the younger set. It's like they're telling us to get out of the way and let them have the full spotlight.


Tell it to Sally Field.

Not gonna happen, kids. Sorry. But women have so much more to offer than girls. We're smarter than you are, we're more experienced, we're way better in bed, we have more money, and many of us look as good, or better, than you do (or than we did at your age for that matter.) We know everything you know, because we've already lived it. And we know all the myriad stuff we've learned since. We know who we are and what we want and we know how to get it. We don't whine, or throw hissy fits, or crave attention to validate our own worth. Rather than telling us "what not to wear" you should be taking lessons. And don't take any of that as an insult. You'll get there too. Given time. Just like my heroine, Sheryl Crow (who's the same age as me, by the way.)

We're here. We rule. Get used to it.

Awakening (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I have to admit, I've been feeling a little sorry for myself. I still can't walk without pain in my left foot. But then, typical me, I've not stopped walking - in heels, mind you - since I hurt it. How can I expect it to do anything but hurt when I don't give it time to heal?

And I'm in a new town where everyone knows everyone else and I don't know anyone. A girl can get a complex pretty quickly being invisible in a small town.

Then there's the problem of trying to fit 3000 square feet of belongings into a 1000 square feet of space. This is only temporary, I know this. I keep telling myself this. And still I'm feeling overwhelmed with it.

I think of these things. I'm truly bothered by them. But they aren't really the problem. In true TTQ fashion, the problem is much more complex than that. I'm experiencing heart ache. Bone deep sadness and grief in the midst of total change. And until some relationships heal, I will continue to know this very dark side of life. But that doesn't give me the right to wallow. To cry when I need to, sure, but then it's time to look around me at all of the great things going on in my life and get on with the business of living.

In case you couldn't tell, I had a great awakening. A wake up call. Literally. I was asleep yesterday morning - way past my normal time to get up. I'd sunk so low I'd somehow determined that staying asleep was preferable to getting up and facing another day. Three hours past the alarm's call to rise, my phone rang. I let it ring. Who wanted to be bothered to get up and answer it? Besides, it was way out in the kitchen. I'd have to walk at least ten steps. Maybe twenty if I took small ones.

And then, just as I'd drifted back to blissful unconsciousness, the phone rang again. The third time, I rolled out of bed, figuring I'd listen to the messages and then take a nap. (Mind you this is the first time in my life I've had a day like this and I'm sorta thinking I can't even escape into depressed oblivion the right way.) I call voice mail, punch in my password with a pissy attitude, and then hear the voice coming from my mailbox. My very special friend, the one with whom I'm living, has been in an accident. On the freeway. The company van he was driving was hit from behind by a semi - and pushed up beneath the semi in front of him. The driver behind him admitted complete fault. He just plain hadn't seen him.

Suddenly things don't matter. Being invisible doesn't matter. Being alive matters.

My friend is there on the line, leaving me a message - so I know he's alive. Panicked sounding, but alive. I dial him back immediately and get to talk to him. He's shaken up. Has a hurt arm and leg, but he thinks he's okay. He won't let the paramedics work on him. I tell him I'm coming to get him. And I run to throw on some clothes.

And that's when my heart completely falls apart. I've lost the two people closest to me in my life in car accidents. I know the drill.

My first thought is to call my daughter. My second thought is to text her. My third is to lift up my chin, get myself dressed and out to the car. To face life head on. And to trust.

I couldn't get to the accident itself. Traffic was backed up for miles. I had to wait over an hour, but the police brought my friend to an exit and eventually he and I hooked up. He had coffee stains on his face. And all over his shirt - front and back. It was in his hair. He looked lost and in pain and tense - and happy to see me. He wasn't bleeding. At all.

I looked carefully. With a practiced eye. There was still no blood. I saw pictures of the van - they'd taken them on the scene on a cell phone. There was no front end. Or back end either. The front seat passenger had been taken to the hospital. There was glass in my friend's shoe - having gone clear through the shoe, not fallen down into it. And there was no blood.

And that's when I woke up. Completely. Irrevocably. I'd just been given life's greatest gift. The gift of life. Of a life spared. Only a miracle could have brought my friend safely to me through that accident. But more, that close call had not been an accident. It had been my wake up call. Yes, life brings hard challenges - but it also brings great joy and sources of strength. It's up to us to see them, to access them, to focus on them and benefit from them. And if we choose not to fully appreciate the gifts we're given, they will be taken away.

Coffee stained and unsmiling, my friend looked better to me than the most magnificent mountain or sky or sunset. I wanted to hug him, but was afraid it would hurt him. I needed to cry, but now wasn't my time. And so I smiled. Just because he was there. The smile started out on my face, but quickly moved from outside to in. And now, twenty four hours later, I'm still smiling - from the inside out. Thanking God and his angels and the universe for standing by me when I didn't stand beside myself.

And for standing beside him, too. And the others in the accident. Other than bruising and minor cuts, one concussion and major stiffness, no one was hurt. Five people involved and no one suffered serious injury. I'm guessing there are five lives filled with people like me who just got that wake up call, too - in different lives with different challenges and needs. One accident and we've all been gifted in a way mere mortals could never make happen. We should gather together. Laugh. Celebrate.

Or better yet - sit quietly at home with our loved ones, smile, and be thankful.

It's Not My Fault (Suzanne Forster)

I’ve always wanted to say that. And if it just so happens that some of you out there are hyper-responsible types who readily feel guilt about things over which you have no control, you may have wanted to say it too.

Here are a few other things I’ve always wanted to say, loudly and with feeling: I was here first! Get your mitts off my chocolate! Who taught you to drive like that? Shut up with the menu options and get me a real person! And my favorite: Is that toilet seat up? I can smell urine from down the hall! Actually, I do say that one, all the time. Just ask the dh. I honestly believe there are health benefits in saying things you’ve always wanted to say, unless they involve libel or slander.

So, have you done it? Feels great, doesn’t it? At the very least, it must reduce stress and frustration. But there’s another reason I brought all this up—and used that title for my blog. There is something going on in my life that’s not my fault, and it’s directly related to my disappearance from the comments on this blog site.
You did notice I was gone, right? For the last couple weeks I haven’t been able to respond to comments on my blogs or post comments to the other broads’ blogs—and I do apologize for that, but really, truly, it’s not my fault. My Dell desktop, from which I do all my email, blogging, and other online stuff, has given up the ghost, and for some reason, blogger.com is not simpatico with my Sony laptop. The blue timing bar, which is probably not what it’s really called, stalls out about half way through and will not let me in the door to post comments. I’ve even waited long enough for it to time out and bump me off line.

Supposedly there’s a new Dell tower on the way. The old one was still under the extended warranty, which is good news and bad news. If a computer is going to crash it’s always better if it’s under warranty, but this computer wasn’t even two years old. It had no viruses and no spyware or adware that anyone could find, which included the Dell-Connect people, who remotely invaded the machine’s bowels and prowled around to their heart’s content.

What the computer did have was one big honking blue screen after another, a variety of Stop Error messages that ranged from a hand slap to the equivalent of a Red Terror Alert. And a tendency to freeze solid and eject me like a jet pilot from the cockpit.

I won’t go into what I’ve always wanted to say to tech help people who ask you to take apart your tower and repair it while they instruct you over the phone. That would be slander. Maybe some day I’ll make a list of the things I’ve always wanted to say. It should do wonders for my blood pressure, but when I do I hope I’ll include the good stuff too. I wish now I’d told my grandmother how much I loved her home-made raspberry jam tarts and how profoundly her gentle, loving ways made a difference in my young life. Truth be told, she probably saved me.

Don’t forget the good stuff.

And finally, on a completely different subject, here’s one last thing I’ve always wanted to say. Go buy my book!

Okay, that was embarrassing. Apparently not embarrassing enough for me to delete it, lol, but still, awkward. Possibly even the equivalent of trailing toilet paper out of a public toilet. But, I’m not taking it back, and in truth, I want to say it to everyone within shouting distance, including my cat.

My book is out! Go buy it!!!!!!!

I’ll bet I’m not the only writer who’s ever wanted to say it, loudly and with feeling. Anyone who’s been reading the blogs here already knows that some of us get to feeling mighty desperate when we have a book out there. J.K. Rowling? Probably not, but the rest of us, definitely. Watching your book do anything less than fly off the shelves is exquisite agony. Chinese water torture would be a pleasure in comparison.

It has nothing to do with ego or bragging rights. It’s all about flop sweat and desperation and not wanting to wait tables for a living. We don’t need adulation, at least not most of us. We need a paycheck. Of course, adulation isn’t bad. I wouldn’t mind some, now that I think about it. Possibly it’s even something I’ve always wanted to say. "Gimme some of the ol’ time adulation!"

Just in case you might be wondering which book I’m talking about, I’m posting a copy of the cover, which is actually worthy of some adulation when you see it in person. The Mira art department did good. And if by chance you should see The Arrangement in person, think a good thought, okay? You don’t have to buy it. Just pop it somewhere on the shelf where people can see it, if you have a sec—and wish it well.
Okay, I’ll put a cork in it now. Always wanted to say that too. But before I sign off, is there something you’ve always wanted to say and haven’t? Ga’on, do it. You’ll feel better, I promise, and it will almost certainly inspire the rest of us.
Suz