How a Freebie Got Expensive and Made Me Cry (LynnK)

Yesterday, I went to a movie. Only because I had a free pass set to expire today, and no sane adult goes to a multiplex on a holiday weekend. Not even us semi-sane adults. My plan was to sneak in on a Friday morning, enjoy a show, and be home before the Fourth of July weekend turns Coronado into a cheerful madhouse.

At the ticket counter, I had to make a choice. The Fantastic Four/Silver Surfer (huh?) was a quick no. I can’t see Pirates of the Caribbean #3 until I see #2. The new Die Hard flick? That can wait. Ah! Ocean’s 13. George Clooney. Yum.

But this is a weekend for patriotism and social responsibility (not to mention barbeque), so I chose the now-kinder, gentler Michael Moore’s Sicko. Except it didn’t start for 15 minutes, which meant a little mall-wandering. Or as I call it, exercise.

Taking care to stay clear of Cinnabon, Nordstrom’s, and other irresistible temptations, I inadvertently stumbled directly into harm’s way. What followed was all Jennifer Crusie’s fault.

Whenever I see her, Jenny is wearing something comfortable, kewl, and casually classy. And whenever I profess admiration for her outfit (translation: "I want to mug you in the stairwell and make off with your outer garments"), she says two words. Well, an initial and a word. J.Jill.

And there it was. The Store. So neat. So refined. So unsuitable for me, slouchy in jeans and sneakers, having a really bad hair day. I wouldn’t have crossed the sacred portal if not for the summons issued by window display . . . a huge poster sporting the ultimate four-letter word:

SALE!

In a heartbeat, I was pawing through the discount racks, slipping on jackets and–unusual Kerstan shopping behavior--putting things back when they didn’t look good on me. As the quintessential hunter-gatherer shopper, I rarely leave a splendid bargain unsnatched.

Never mind that I already have too many clothes. The RWA Conference is looming. How could I wear something there that I wore at a previous conference for a couple hours? In a crowd of 2000 women who don’t remember what I wore then or care what I look like now? The horror. The horror.

OK, it’s not rational. But in the pre-Conference time of year, I, too, go cheerfully mad.

Besides, how much trouble could I get into with only a few minutes to shop? As it turns out, very little. One dusky-rose linen-blend duster, marked down from $60 to $20. No time to buy, though, so the clerk agreed to hold it while I went to see my movie.

That’s where the crying happened, in between the laughing and the fury. But it was mostly crying, for the fate of fellow Americans (insured or not) who have the misfortune to get sick. I was red-eyed and feeling mighty feisty two hours later, when I returned to J.Jill for my duster.

And spotted another greatly discounted and eminently packable thingie–didn’t even care what it was--which I grabbed because I wanted to feel good again. And then I saw a terrific jacket that was clearly meant to be mine. The lone petite size in the store, a return from a catalogue sale. But it was a little small. Awww. So they checked other stores in California, and now the next size up will be shipped to me from Los Angeles. In time for the Conference. J. Jill is nothing if not helpful. Even for a 75%-off item.

Really, I spent very little money, and I know I’ll get good use from my purchases. But as I barely missed the bus home and walked around the San Diego harbor for awhile with my cute J.Jill shopping bag on my arm, I couldn’t help thinking about what I must do next. Find a way, however small, to make a change for people who have not been so lucky as I.

Most of my adult life, I had no insurance. My mother (a Navy widow with health benefits) worried about it constantly. But my workplace offered nothing, and neither of us could afford to insure me. Besides, I never got sick.

After she died, though, I knew she’d want me to use my share of the sale of her little house to buy insurance. So I did, and when I was later diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer, my HMO treated me fairly and effectively.

Others are not so fortunate. And in future I’d like to make a difference for them, in memory of my mother. Not yet sure how to be of use. But I’ll certainly have to cut back on the unnecessary shopping.

Right after I find the perfect trousers to go with that jacket.

The Wiggle of an Idea (Patricia Potter)

Two days ago I had no plot for a contracted romantic suspense novel and, yegods, it’s due in six months.

I’ve been completely absorbed by the book I just finished, probably the most complex one in recent years. Talk about painting oneself into corners. One after another.

Don’t want to do that again. Simplicity. That’s the word I want for the next one.

Well, desperation kicked in, and a news article I read years ago resurfaced in my head. Two young women discovered they were living with the wrong parents. They had been switched at birth, not on purpose but apparently by carelessness in the hospital. One was from a wealthy family, the other by a struggling blue collar family. They were eighteen when the mistake was discovered..

Bells went off then, but I had other books in line.

Now that old bell ringer article rescued me.

From that one very short news story years ago, ideas started wriggling around in my head, and ten hours later the I had the beginnings of a plot. Who are the two women? What is their relationship with their families? With each other? And the suspense? Well, you’ll have to wait to find out about that, but I can’t wait to get started.

The evolution of a plot is a strange and mysterious thing. I’m going to a high school reunion tomorrow and will be driving four hours to, and four hours back. Lovely hours to fill out the details. Will the hero be the attorney who is suspiciously too good to be true? Or the detective investigating a murder? Will both the daughters live, or will one die? And was the hospital error really an error? Or something more sinister?

I don’t know any of the answers yet. I’ll develop some on the trip, others when I sit down at the computer and start writing the synopsis. It’s amazing how a plot then falls into place.

And already something is telling me the plot is not going to be . . . simple. Here comes more corners.

But I do I love plots that come from the newspaper or history pages. No fiction can ever surpass reality, not in historicals, not in relationships and not in suspense.

How do my fellow Broads – and other authors who visit us – go about building their plots? Where do you get your ideas?

And now I’m off to my high school reunion. First one I’ve ever attended and not too sure it’s a wise thing. I wasn’t the happiest when in high school. But a writer’s curiosity won out. Will report back next week.

A True Immortal (Maggie)

Is it any wonder that Stevie Nicks has inspired me for so long? Her lyrics and her voice have been the soundtrack of my life. My Rhiannon was formed from the notes of hers. The Belladonna Antigen in the vamp novels, and so many of the relationships in that series sprang from inspirational seeds planted by her songs.

So seeing Stevie Nicks perform live at the Turning Stone in Verona NY Tuesday night was a truly moving experience for me, and it came at a turning point in my life, when I'm moving slowly through grief and loss and on to whatever is waiting for me next. Every song she performed seemed to be speaking just to me. Or about me. She made me weep. Especially with Landslide. I've been through one lately. Apparently, she's weathered a few of her own, and survived. Lost the love of her life, and survived. She's an inspiration. A goddess among women.

I purchased the new CD/DVD combination, Crystal Visions, and a Stevie T-shirt at the gift shop. I have every song on the CD, but not in this particular order ;) and the DVD is going to be great. I left a signed copy of Rhiannon's story with one of the roadies, who seemed truly excited about it, and promised to see to it that Stevie gets it.

It was good. Moving, touching, and important to me. And when I came home and visited her website (www.nicksfix.com) and read the recent articles about her, I learned that Stevie is 58. It's not possible. She's truly immortal. She looked wonderful, has lost weight. She sounded wonderful. If anything her vocal range is improving now that she's on tour again. She changed clothes 4 times, maybe 5, during the concert, and I love that she loves clothes as much as I do, and that she lookes so great in them. It was just a magickal event, and she is just as beautiful and enchanting as ever. More so, I think. She's lived what she sings about now. It's deeper, more real now.

I also learned how to gamble. Since the event was at the Turning Stone, a casino, and I went with my dear pal Michele, a gambling guru, we got there early and she showed me the ropes. I learned to play Texas Hold 'em, and Let it Ride, and a couple of other games whose names escape me. I'll forget them before I ever go back, but I learned, and I played a few hands but mostly, I watched. I played the machines a little, but I don't trust them. And then on the way to cash in our chips (in the good way) we passed the roulette table, and I got a very strong feeling of "11." So I stopped, and put five chips on the 11, and they spun the wheel and the little marble landed in the 11, and I won 175 bucks. I was quite pleased. And as the dealer waited for me to select my numbers for the next round, I said, "Oh, but you don't understand. I'm done."

I guess I don't have the gambling bug. Which is a very good thing because it seems to be one of the few addictive things that doesn't try to get hold of me. ;) I have that kind of personality.

At any rate, Tuesday was a very good day. The concert was a great interval for me, an island of bliss in a sea of not-so-greatness, lately. I've got to find more of those. Maybe the Iphone? (duh, I don't even have reception at home, but I love gadgets, and particularly love Apple gadgets. So we'll see.) Belly dance class is tonight. I'm going to start running again today. It's been about two months. Honestly, I never let that much time go. Depression will do that to you. When you need exercise most you feel like it least. Depression is a result of feeling powerless, you know. And nothing makes you feel more powerful, more strong, more alive than running up a hill with your entire body focused on beating it. And then getting there. It's an absolute cure, and I'm angry with myself for letting myself wallow instead of getting up and fighting far sooner. Two months. Honestly.

So anyway, that's enough of the wallowing already. If Stevie can survive so can I. She inspired me. So have lots of other people.

Dating report: It's not good, folks. I went to a baseball game with a nice guy last weekend, but I knew it wasn't going anywhere very early on. Although I really enjoyed watching the Binghamton Mets play. I'm glad I went, because that's a new fun thing to add to my list of things I enjoy doing. I'd never been to one. There are a few prospects, though, and I'm just trying to enjoy life without a man in it, while I sift through the possibilities in search of one who can give me what I want.

We'll see. And in the meantime, we'll run, with Stevie playing our soundtrack into our headphones. And we'll tackle the hills as if trying to stomp them flat. And we'll be stronger at the top.

Maggie

Maggie Guest Blogging for Witchy Chicks, Wednesday 6/27!

Honestly, I typed the link in so that it's supposed to take you there when you click on the headline, and checked it twice, but it won't work. So just in case, the blog is at http://www.witchychicks.blogspot.com

The Wonders of Urine, Spit, and Pickle Juice (Suzanne Forster)

You all knew urine was sterile, right? So, if you’re camping in the wilderness and you hurt yourself and you want to clean the wound, but have no soap and water, just pee on it. That might be easier to do if you’re a guy, but I guess the important thing is that urine is sterile, which gives it a dizzying array of uses, if you can get past the fact that it’s … urine.

Apparently, my mother thought spit was sterile, too, given how freely she used it to clean me up when I was a kid. Of course, she added to my humiliation by doing it in public. Restaurants were her favorite place, probably because I could be counted upon not to use my napkin properly. Sometimes she actually spit on her finger and cleaned crud off my face. And no one said a word. I kept waiting for someone to stop her and explain that spit was disgusting. I wasn’t allowed to spit. Why was she? But everybody seemed to think it was just fine when she did it.

She also believed that apple cider vinegar and honey, taken together, cleaned out the human system the way Draino unclogs pipes. Not that it gave you the trots. This was a more subtle cleansing that somehow spit-shined the internal organs in ways I never understood. I hated the stuff, but nevertheless was forced to drink an entire glass of it every day . . . until I upchucked. Kids know how to upchuck. That’s our home remedy when mothers force feed us vinegar and honey.

Did I mention that I’ve been researching home remedies for a book? Boy, did I find some. I could have called this blog Gross Out Home Remedies.

One thing I learned from observation alone is that lots of mothers give their children spit baths. Sorry, that is so gross, I know, but we all do it, don’t we? We hate it when we’re kids, and then we do it to our own kids. I know I did. I think it’s more a question of convenience than anything else. Dirty faces, no water? What else are you going to do?

Thinking I’d exhausted the uses of human spittle and in search of more variety, I polled family, friends, and the members of my Yahoo group. A lifelong friend told me her mother used to swab castor oil on her warts, and my friend swears the warts all fell off, showing me her perfect hands as proof. Three members of the group claimed that wet tobacco is a great home remedy for everything from disinfecting bleeding wounds to bee stings.

One member told us her daughter was stung on the neck by a bee while they were on a train ride, and a grizzled old man took out a wad of chewing tobacco and stuck it on the sting. They later stopped at a first aid station and the man who cleaned the wound swore he used chewing tobacco on his grandchildren. Another member said that tobacco mixed with a little spit works better than any commercial product. My mother would feel vindicated, I’m sure.

A group member who served in the Navy said shipboard poison antidote lockers contained Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer for the treatment of insect and marine life stings. Come to think of it, meat tenderizer might be easier to get a hold of than wet tobacco, at least here in California. He also told us that when he was a kid he whacked his head on a 2X2 post while riding his trike, and his grandmother put a knife in the freezer until it was cold. She then placed it on the painful spot. He never bruised and there was no swelling. I have to say that’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard, no pun intended.

The following came from a member’s old family cookbook:

If a cracked dish is boiled for forty-five minutes in sweet milk, the crack will be so welded together that it will hardly be visible, and will be so strong that it will stand up to the same usage as before. (Another group member verified this to be true and suggested sweetened condensed milk.)

Burned Fingertips: Quickly grip ear lobe with burned finger and blistering will be prevented. (Ouch. However, if you try it and it works, let me know.)

Fever Blisters: As soon as the first soreness is felt, start drinking large glasses of apple cider and drink often. The blister won't come. (As long as it's not apple cider vinegar. Urp.)

For nightmares, place a pan of cold water under bed. (Why didn’t somebody tell me!)

Of course, we all know you’re supposed to put pickle juice on a burn, don’t we?

So, who was the home remedy person in your family? Did s/he have any nifty home remedies? Or gross ones that were used to torture you? Share them with us if you’d like, but be aware that they could show up in a book or a blog.

Suz

NOW FOR A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS

Okay, you know me. I don't spend a lot of time hawking my books on here. I know, I know, blogs are supposed to be about getting our name out so more people will buy our books, but I'm just not the practical sort. I don't come on here to talk you into buying my stuff, I'm here to talk about pretty J-rockers and quilting and favorite songs and movies and how to get through life.

But I've got a book coming out today, and I'm pushing it. Because it's glorious, and maybe because I only wrote part of it, so I don't feel quite so mercenary.

It's THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES, and despite the fact that there are three names on the cover it's a novel, not an anthology. And it's unbelievably cool.

Now you wouldn't think Jennifer Crusie and Eileen Dreyer and I had much in common as writers. Jenny writes fabulously snarky romantic comedy, Eileen writers crackerjack suspense (and as Kathleen Korbel some fabulous romance novels) and I write sex and violence and rock and roll. Not to mention historical romances. But we all blended together, pretty damned seamlessly. We each have a heroine, and I dare you to figure out who wrote who.

(Well, I think it's pretty obvious but others haven't been able to tell).

So this is pretty ground-breaking, and a hoot, if you ask me. The website (http://www.unfortunatemissfortunes.com/) is full of goodies -- exquisite wallpaper of the cover, quizzes, prizes (I'm making a Miss Fortunes quilt, Jenny's crocheting fabulous hats, Eileen's doing needlepoint), and all sorts of other entertainment.

It was an incredible learning experience. If there's one thing I've learned after 33 years as a published author (yes, I was very young) it's that there are always new ways to do things. I love reinventing my process. Just when you think you've figured out how to write a novel, the next one presents itself in an entirely different manner. So learning new ways to approach it is priceless.

Another invaluable thing I learned was that Publishers Weekly reviewers don't always read the book, which is pretty disheartening. Whoever got paid for doing our review ripped them off -- anyone who opened the book would know it's a novel, not an anthology, but idiot not only said it was an anthology but suggested next time we write a novel together. Jeesh! Of course when they give me fabulous reviews they've clearly read every word, but from now on I'll just assume anything less than high praise is a fabrication. Much easier on the blood pressure.

So anyway, go out and buy this book, because it's delightful and funny and sexy and a treat. You'll thank me for it later.

And forgive this brief commercial interruption. Back to our regularly scheduled program.

"What Do Women Want?"

Poet Kim Addonizio isn't waiting until she is old to wear what she wants. And it isn't purple! This was posted by Rosie O'Donnell (another outspoken woman) to the excellent Poem of the Week site.
http://poem-of-the-week.blogspot.com/2007/

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

So . . . is there a defiant outfit in your closet? Or one you are mentally choosing for yourself?

A Curmudgeon's View Of Movies and Such (Pat P)

I always enjoy the annual presentation of American Film Institute’s Top 100 greatest American Movies of all time. that it broadcasts each year. It’s kinda like meeting some old and dear friends. Friends like “Casablanca,” “Gone With The Wind,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “ High Noon,” “The Sound of Music,” “Ben Hur” and “West Side Story.” The list is compiled by “a blue-ribbon panel of leaders from across the film community.

I usually have some major disagreements, mostly about films that didn’t make the list. Sorry, but I hated Clockwork Orange that ranked high, and I didn’t care much for Pulp Fiction that was more gore than story, but I admit to being an old-fashion sentimentalist who loves a good story and a satisfying ending. Not too many of those around these days.

I usually go to films to be entertained, not lectured to. Not to see unending death and gore and language that seems to be there for shock value rather than characterization. Most definitely I do not go to see evil rewarded and justice blocked. Nor to hear that life is hell and then you die. Certainly not to come out more depressed than when I went inside the theater.

What would I substitute for some on the list? Well, “ Witness” for one. “Witness” was the perfect movie. Great story, great characters, great suspense, great message. The cop who lives in a violent world thrust into the gentle and peaceful loving Amish community, and at the end it is the values of the Amish that vanquish the bad guy, not the guns. The sexual tension is a model for all romance writers.

Another book that didn’t make the list is one of my very favorites. “The Big Country” with Gregory Peck and Jean Simmons. Another story about non-violence but drawn on a huge sprawling canvas. It’s one of the few movies I can watch over and over again. It’s a story about misplaced loyalty, revenge, and hatred, but the later is conquered ever so well by a hero who puts honor and integrity above bravado and a woman who understands true courage.

And “Giant” with Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor didn’t make a list. Its message about prejudice was enveloped in a great story about fascinating and complex characters in a thirty-year time period that changed the state and our nation.

I could go on.

I must admit that as a movie goer and writer, I’m not as interested in technical brilliance as I am in the story; therefore while I agree with probably 80 of the 100, I certainly would make changes in the other.

The list also reminds me of the dearth I personally find in today’s films. They just don't seem to make the kind of movies I enjoy. A former film addict, I'm simply not that interested in today's offerings. I watched the Academy Awards this year and hadn't seen one of the top films nominated for Best Picture of the Year, nor, with one exception, those honored for individual performances or direction. Deadlines, continuing involvment in RWA and a sick mother demand most of my time. But perhaps I would try to find more of that precious commodity if there were any films I really wanted to see. That means films that truly entertain because of riveting plots, characters you want to succeed, and an ending that satisfies. Doesn't always mean a happy ending, but one that leaves you with the feeling that all will be well, that justice was done. I still want the good guys to win.

Shallow it might be, but there it is.

For those interested in the list, you can find it at Http://www.afi.com/tvevents/100years/movies. I would like to know what films you might substitute. Which ones moved you for whatever reason? Which ones still linger in your mind even thirty and forty years later?


Having made that rant, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed “On the Lot” on Thursday nights on the Fox Network. Young would-be directors/film-makers vie for a job with Dreamworks. Each week, the participants compete with short films they’d authored, filmed and produced in a period of day or several days.

As an author, I truly appreciate the creative mind and how individuals will take the same subject and produce completely different scenarios. Give it a look.

Becalmed (LynnK)

That’s me.

Well, it’s actually kelp undulating like a belly dancer in the ocean current. The bulb-like thingie on the left keeps the graceful top fronds afloat, where they can gather light. Way below, a "hold-fast" (looking something like tentacles wrapped around a rock) prevents the sea-plant from floating away.

Bull kelp just pretty much floats and sucks in sunlight and grows, usually about 6 inches a day. Off the San Diego coast, it is sometimes harvested by funny-looking boats for use in, oh, ice cream and paint and asphalt and ketchup.

That’s a lot more useful than I have been of late. Coastal May Gray and June Gloom are finally surrendering to summer in Coronado, but I keep thinking it’s still February. That’s when I made plans to accomplish wonders, explore long-postponed interests, declutter my living space, and finish a book in a new-to-me genre "on spec." Also re-string my untouched-since-1984 guitar and learn again how to play. Badly. I was always a lousy guitarist.

Instead, I float, and soak in the sunlight, and sometimes sing, and sometimes write, and generally dither.

Meantime, all around me, friends are undergoing major life-changes. Divorces. New Loves. Grandchildren. Caregiving. Empty nests. Health setbacks. Career advances. They are brave. Intrepid. Real troupers. I am . . . a slacker.

Or maybe I’m ADD. It’s not just for teenagers any more. I start projects, lots of them, with enthusiasm. Which lasts until I notice something else that needs doing, and so I zig in that direction. And notice something else and zag in that direction. And the next. And the next.

Looking around me right now, I see a dozen projects long since begun and long after still undone. Weeks ago I wrote about trying to set up my new Vista-equipped laptop. When I left you, the green light of a hibernating Dell 6400 was blinking ominous messages at me. It still is. Or, I presume it is. In this small apartment, space is limited. The new laptop, apparently a permanent ornamental fixture on a small end table, is now covered with a canvas tote bag, a folder I use for music scores, yet another unread Newsweek magazine (open to Anna Quindlen’s column because I love her stuff), two paper towels, a receipt from Ross, and an empty plastic sandwich bag.

Even when I get my act together, all occasions do inform against me. It’s been a little too cold and gloomy for me to do water aerobics in the excellent municipal pool. which is set on a narrow landstrip between the ocean and the bay. The sun no sooner goes down than an arctic (OK, mildly cold) wind springs up and chills me to the bone.

Nonetheless, determined to lose some pounds before the Romance Writers of America Conference in July, I kitted myself out in swimsuit, aquashoes, "rash guard" with extra thermal protection, and trundled a mile to the pool.

That was two weeks ago. Wouldn’t you know the pool was undergoing its annual checkup and refurbishing. So last Monday, I regarbed myself and showed up ready to set new exercise records for a member of The Society of Chlorinated Ladies. Only to learn the pool would be closed for another week. Who knows what I’ll find next Monday, when I give it yet another go?

Oh, well. No point worrying about my current lack of productivity. Fact is, I only work well under deadline or when I’m feeling really good about what I’m doing. Which I do, actually, when it comes to writing. It’s probably all about not being under contract for this book. I feel as if I’m auditioning yet again, and auditioning paralyzes me. Performing has always been easy. Acting, singing, teaching, giving speeches . . . piece 'o cake. And when a a publisher wants a book from me, I am imbued with the confidence to deliver. But with writing and singing and almost everything else, auditions always send me into panic.

Pretty boring, I know. Nothing like what my friends are going through. And while I’m not terribly productive for the nonce, I’m happily doing things I enjoy. This morning, I’ll be registering voters after a naturalization ceremony. Tomorrow I’ll spend at an all-day choral workshop. Sunday there’s a barbeque, and I’m making my excellent potato salad for thirty people. Um, make that twenty-nine. I’m in pre-Conference diet mode.

Please tell me I'm not the only one ever succumbed to a bout of Kelp Syndrome. Fellow victims, how do you snap yourself out of the doldrums?

Paddling Upstream (Maggie)

A lot of friends of mine who had sold books to a certain publisher, and were expecting them to be released in the coming months, just got the stunning news that the publisher has filed for bankruptcy and is going out of business. They're reeling, devastated.

It occured to me that they must feel a lot like I felt when the person I was seeing decided to end our relationship. I was reeling and devastated too. In both cases, it's like having your heart torn out, thrown on the floor and stomped on by someone you trusted. Someone you were counting on. Someone you loved. It may seem like the situations are very different, and in some ways they are. But for a writer, the dream of having her book published is very powerful, and I think being jilted by someone you love is the only experience that really comes close to what these writers are feeling right now.

I've been figuring out what helps as I move along, because I have to in order to function at all. So I thought the best thing I could possibly do is share what works, and the words of wisdom that have soothed me, with all the writers going through their own hell right now. All of what I'm about to tell you comes from the wisdom of Abraham.

It's okay to feel bad, so give yourself permission to mourn a little. But it's also important to feel good, as often as you can. When you feel good, you are moving with the stream of your life, which is carrying you ever onward toward the things you want. When you feel bad, you are paddling against the current, and you can't get to the things you want from there. You can only attract to you more of the things you don't want.

Feeling good isn't always possible--especially when something this awful happens. At these times, the only good move is to reach for a feeling of relief. Anything that distracts you from the pain, and makes you feel better, even a tiny bit better, is gently turning your boat back into the current of that stream. So for now, just reach for relief. As soon as you get turned around in that current, things will start to get better, and good things will begin coming to you. They can't get in when you're paddling upstream.

The busier you are, the less you have time to feel horrible. And if the things that keep you busy are things that make you feel good, it's even better. So start filling your schedule. Spend time with people who are uplifting. Avoid getting drawn into lengthy discussions of how bad this is, because that puts it front and center again. (I did this for weeks, just talked and talked and talked about how bad I felt, and felt worse and worse all the time.)

I traded in my car, rejoined the Y, started working out again, joined a belly dancing class, went shopping with a friend, bought a glorious dress, and started looking around and noticing that there were lots of other men who would love to spend some time with me. In relationships, jumping from one to another is not the best idea. But casual dating with no pressure and just fun, is very very good. It restores my confidence and reminds me that I don't have to be alone unless I choose to be. For the writers, start looking around, flirting with other publishers, being open to their interest in you. Nothing will make you feel better faster than realizing this one company was not the only one, or the last one, that's going to show an interest in you and your work.

Try to avoid lying around in depression dwelling on what you've lost. Instead, get out there and start looking for what lies ahead. You get to choose where to put your focus.

Life is like a banquet, full of things you like and things you don't like. When you let yourself dwell on and focus on pain and loss, it's like going to a banquet and choosing only the dishes you don't like, and resenting it, but doing it anyway. But if you can choose to focus on relief, and later, on things that make you feel good, it's like being a very fussy diner at that banquet, and choosing only the dishes that you not only like, but LOVE. Pick and choose.

When life hands you something you don't like, what really happens is that you learn; okay, by knowing what I don't want, I can now have a clearer picture of what I DO want. And when you know what you want, you launch a rocket of desire that shoots out into the universe and literally becomes that thing you do want. Once that's done, all you have to do is stop paddling upstream (feeling bad) long enough for the current to carry you to where it's now waiting.

Some of you are still too raw to hear this or get it. Some of you will get it right away. Some of you may need to embrace the pain for awhile before you can move on. I was listening to Abraham CDs several times a day during the worst of my pain. I'd feel better for about an hour or two, and then plunge into despair again, and then listen to the CD again, and so on. Eventually, the message got through. "Nothing I want is upstream!"

I also began to realize that, even before the break, I was feeling bad a lot of the time about the things that I wanted that I wasn't getting. Not enough attention, not enough affection, not enough love. (And by letting myself focus on the "not enough" I no doubt attracted more of them.) But it also was my inner self was telling me, "this isn't what you want. You're paddling upstream." Your emotions are your inner soul's way of communicating with you, you see. Bad emotions are that voice saying, "No, come this way. What you want is over here." In hindsight, the signs were there all along. And in the end, the break really set me free, so that my boat could turn, eventually, and begin flowing with the current again, toward the things I really want. They're all waiting for me.

They're all waiting for you too. This break has set you free from something that wasn't giving you all the things you wanted. Any misgivings you felt before the break were messages from your true self, calling you down stream. And now your boat has been set free, and once you get past the shock and the pain and disappointment, and begin being able to feel good again, you'll flow with the current and it will carry you on toward the things you really want.

That's my wisdom for the day. I'll add this from my personal experience in an area you might relate to more easily. When the Shadows line folded, I thought my career was over. I only had a few books to my credit, and the ones I most wanted to write no longer had a home. But Shadows wasn't giving me what I wanted. Not the print runs, not the bestseller lists, not the awards, not the money. I was already getting messages from my inner self, everytime I felt bad about those things. When the line folded, I was devasted, but I got past the pain and got back to my love of writing, and my boat turned. By knowing what I didn't want, I knew what I did want, and the current carried me straight to it, and it didn't take all that long.

I'm still writing those vampire books. But now they get great print runs, have great sell throughs, hit the bestseller lists, win awards, and make me a lot of money. That wouldn't have happened if Shadows hadn't ended. I'd have probably anchored myself right there, thinking it was my only option, for years longer.

Trust the stream, my friends. Cut the anchor line, let go of the oars and let the current take you on.

The title of this piece links to Abraham-Hicks.com where you can get more info on the wisdom I shared here.

All is well, it really is.

Maggie

Let's talk about who's responsible(Tara Taylor Quinn)

I don't love the cover. I don't love the title. But I love this book. It's out in two weeks. Won't have a long shelf life. Won't even be looked at by tons of readers because it says romance on the cover. And I love this book.

Sara's son is a twenty-one year old cop. She doesn't know that though. Not until he turns up on her doorstep and introduces himself. She hadn't seen him since she'd sweated and cried with no one but medical personell around, to birth him when she was only sixteen years old. She'd disobeyed her sheriff dad back then. Gone to a fraternity party pretending to be twenty-one. Drank too much. And woke up the next morning having been raped. She doesn't remember the night. Neither does the rapist. But the evidence is solid. That young man with a promising future goes to prison for five years. He's a sex offender for life. She has a baby boy.

And twenty-one years later, the three of them meet. There's a mystery to solve. Lives to try and salvage. Hearts to heal. When I first presented this idea to my editor, I expected her to say, 'no way.' 'It won't work.' Halfway through the book, I cursed her for not doing so. How did she think - how had I ever thought - I could write this book. A heroine who was raped and the hero was her rapist? But Sara just kept talking to me. Eventually I listened. And the result changed my life.

It also raised some questions that have been eating at me ever since. When is it rape? When is a man culpable? When is a woman? Do you know that in some states if a woman tells a man he can have sex with her and then changes her mind and he rapes her, he's within his rights???? These states hold the woman responsible.

In other states, Arizona being one of them, a husband and wife can be having sex. The wife changes her mind and says no. The husband proceeds. And he has committed rape. Last year I sat in an Arizona Superior Court room and watched as a man was sentenced to prison for having sex with his wife after she'd told him no.

I once heard a man say, 'I knew by the look in her eyes that she wasn't enjoying it, so I hurried up...' I kept a blank look on my face, but inside I'm screaming, 'why in the hell didn't you stop?'

I used to believe the oft repeated idea that men can't help it past a certain point. That once they are led to a level of arousal, they just can't stop. As young girls we were taught very clearly about being a tease - or rather, not being one. We were taught the dangers of leading a man on - always with the underlying message that even a good man can't help himself if a girl takes him down that road.

When I was in high school a girl was raped. People said she'd asked for it because she wore tight hip hugger jeans and halter tops. A girl was approached walking home from work late one night, and she'd asked for that, too. Because she'd walked alone at night. My senior year in college one of my fellow students, a girl who lived in the campus apartment next to mine, was raped a few days before the semester started. She spoke before a small assembly of us and told us how the rape was partially her fault because she'd been walking back and forth from her car to her apartment all alone, moving her things in.

A girl goes on a date. She's parking with the guy. He kisses her. She likes his kisses. And then he starts going for more than kisses. She goes along with him for bit, thinking they're on the same page. They like each other. They're human and have feelings. But there are things they just aren't going to do. Except that he is. And he does. She goes to court to defend herself against this guy that's been charged with rape and she hears how she led him on, how he had no way of knowing she didn't want to have sex with him. She hears that she did want to have sex with him, with plenty of evidence shown that she really liked him and wanted to go parking, and hears the claim that she's just trying to get back at him for breaking up with her afterward. He's found not guilty. She leaves the courtroom feeling dirty. Damaged. As much as she had the night of the rape. In some ways more so because now everyone knew. And the law of the land said that what had happened to her was her fault. Or that it was okay.

I recently was in conversation with a man who told me that a man can always stop. Always. It just depends on where his mind is, what he knows about himself, what he allows of himself, where he holds himself responsible. Men are not runting animals. They have brains. They have the ability to exercise self control if they so choose.

It was a novel concept to me. One I haven't fully accepted yet. It makes sense. And yet, girls have a very clear power in their femininity. Many, as they go through puberty, learn how to use that power. Some sell that power. They come on to men. Promising things they never intend to deliver. So that makes them less than admirable. Does it give the man the right to take what she promised but didn't give?

What do you think? Who's responsible?

So, Who's to Blame? (Suzanne Forster)

Two weeks ago I wrote a blog on appearance discrimination, based on an Oprah show I’d seen on the same topic. It’s a social issue that pushes lots of buttons, and the comments I got were both thoughtful and thought-provoking. But one in particular has stayed with me since the blog was published. It raised some questions that I haven’t been able to answer, and that seemed reason enough to throw it out there for more discussion.

I mentioned in the blog that women are more likely to be the victims of appearance discrimination than men. I believe my exact words were “how we tend to focus on women as symbols of our need for physical perfection.” This provoked an interesting observation that came via a private email, and I wanted to share it here. Btw, I got permission to share the observation only, not the observer’s name. I think “he” might be a little worried about stirring up a hornets’ nest, so I promised to protect “his” identity, but I should probably say that “he” is someone I know well.

Anyway, here it is:

“One of my pet peeves is that women often complain about injustice as far as looks and appearance go, but for the most part they themselves are responsible for it. It is not men, usually, who produce the glamour mags, the shows about beauty and what is "good" and what is not. It’s women. Women have their own ideas of what is beautiful and they all but shove that down the throats of other women. It's true that men have played a part in this, but in today's world, I honestly believe women are far more responsible for this mess than men are.”

Hmmmm. My first reaction was no way. This is all about reproductive biology, isn’t it? With the female of the species gussying up and finding ways to attract the biggest, strongest male for mating purposes? Do women wear bustiers, stiletto heels, and thong underwear for other women? I’m just asking. Do they get Brazilian waxes? And is it really women who run the beauty contests? I do believe Donald Trump is in some way involved in the Miss Universe contest, is he not?

Okay, so possibly I’m a bit defensive on the subject. But once I got that out of my system, I had to admit that the emailer had an interesting point—and one that’s been made before. We’ve all heard that women dress for other women, and I think there is some truth to that, but only some. Besides, the standard of beauty I had in mind in my original blog wasn’t limited to how women dress. It was about preferred length of hair, body measurements, make up and grooming choices. It was about everything that defines a woman’s appearance today.

So, could it actually be women who set the impossibly high standard of beauty for other women? Well, I dunno, maybe, partly. I’m no expert but I think it is mostly women who publish and edit the glamour magazines. The movie, The Devil Wears Prada, comes to mind. It’s loosely based on Anna Wintour’s ongoing reign at American Vogue magazine and her role as a fashion arbiter. Wintour, and others like her, supposedly have as much to say about how women should look and dress as the couture designers do.

And I do think that women may be more critical of each other than men are of women, which btw was the premise of the original blog, i.e., that more discrimination occurs within groups than between groups. In this case, the women being one group, the men being another. On the Oprah show that started this topic, there were two African American guests, a mother and her son, who said that the relative darkness of their skin, compared to others of their race, had made them victims of considerable painful discrimination, but the discrimination had come from within the group, from members of their own race, not from other races. It would seem that we are very hard on those most like us, but I do wonder if it isn’t because we’re so acutely aware of our own flaws.

So, yes, women are probably complicit in their own appearance discrimination, but I’m not convinced it’s women who set the standard for female beauty. Or maybe there’s more than one standard at work here? For example, what about Playboy and Esquire and many of the other magazines aimed at men that feature women in various states of undress and airbrushed to perfection? Nobody can tell me they don’t play a role in shaping women’s concerns about men’s expectations for what a woman should look like. I know they did my concerns. Heck, I can remember thinking if that’s who these guys are fantasizing about what hope is there for me?

I was fifteen when I got my first look at a Playboy magazine, and I still bear the emotional scars. Don’t scoff now. None of us get out of this life without a few weird traumas, and Playboy was one of mine. I was at the neighbor’s, babysitting, and I came across a small stack of the magazines in a bathroom cabinet when I was looking for Neosporene for one of the kidlet’s boo boos. Once the kids were in bed, you can bet I went straight back to that cabinet and pored through those magazines. There are times I wish I hadn’t.

The problem was I matured physically incredibly late. Seriously, I didn’t get breasts until I was in my forties. So, you can imagine my horror when I realized what women were supposed to look like, based on what this magazine was telling me men secretly fantasized and dreamed about. No way would I ever come close. And no way did I ever come close. Who could? Victoria’s Secrets models? Puleeeze. Do those skinny, big-breasted (expletive deleted, but you know the plural word that starts with B I’d like to use) really exist in real life?

Well, yes, they do. And yes, they’re airbrushed, but there really are fabulous physical specimens of womanhood out there, and they are constant reminders that 99% of us do not measure up. As Anne Stuart posted yesterday in her brilliant blog, life ain’t fair. We don’t all have the equipment to be supermodels or Playboy centerfolds, this is true. But we do all have equipment, which includes any number of other things besides physical beauty—and will last a lot longer.

Brains, character, personality, charm, boldness and bravery. I could go on and on. Beauty really is fleeting and life is about so much more. At some point, life is about coming to terms with the looks we’re born with—and to my way of thinking, the quicker the better. So, what do you think, are women to blame for our impossible standards of beauty? Are we too critical of each other in that way? And how do you deal with your blessings, or lack of them, in the looks department?

Suz

Blizzards and Mud

First off, aren't we gorgeous? I found my most flattering picture (and trust me, that really is Anne Stuart) and we have our snazzy new layout. In honor of it (and because my children decided not to self-destruct this week after all) I'm going to pass on the secret of the universe.
Life isn't fair.
Yeah, I know, it should be. But we all know that no good deed goes unpunished, only the good die young, bad things happen to good people, etc. And the problem is, if we have any kind of moral center at all we go through life trying to act as if life is fair. Because if we're fair, honorable, generous, work very very hard at our craft, give of ourselves, we assume the universe will play the same way.
But it doesn't work that way. Sometimes life just stinks. People die, brilliant books tank, bad diseases crop up just when life is getting better. And to quote my dour husband, all we get in Vermont is blizzards and mud.
But in Vermont you also get clear, beautiful summer days, you get autumn with glorious leaves, you get magic snowfalls and clean air and beautiful mountains and crystal clear lakes. It just depends on how you look at it.
The secret to life is It Ain't Far. But the secret to getting through life is to pretend that it is.
Eventually the snow melts, the mud dries up, and as a special gift from the universe we get maple syrup to sweeten our days.
And when someone dies we mourn, and grieve, for the rest of our lives really, but we also take joy in the time we had with them. Bad diseases can be cured, and hell, if a brilliant book tanks then sooner or later it will be rediscovered, or you'll write another brilliant book, or at the very worst you'll cut off your ear and then kill yourself but you'd still be Van Gogh.
From the vantage point of my ancient 59 years, I can see that there are a million bad things that I can't change, a hundred bad things that I can. But I'll still work to change the hundred bad things that are in my control.
If you're trapped by those bad things, I have a couple of suggestions.
The Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland made it a habit to believe in "6 impossible things before breakfast." Words of wisdom from a homidal old bat.
Believe in the impossible, and act as if the world is fair. You might trick the fates into believing you.
And you need a soundtrack. In church we have hymns -- All Things Bright and Beautiful, Morning Has Broken, all sorts of lovely, joyful things.
You can have your own hymns. Songs that make you feel like soaring (and driving too fast if you're listening to them in the car). Make yourself a mix of happy songs for your mp3 player.
Rejoice. If this life is blizzards and mud, spring will come eventually.
Here endeth the sermon.

And now discussion time. Anyone have any tricks for dealing with the rampant unfairness of life? Kick a door? Dance naked around the house? Sing "Anarchy in the UK'? (one of my favorite coping mechanisms). Curl up in bed and reread your favorite Georgette Heyer?

We all need help. Give us some suggestions!

New Look! New Contest! Same Us!

To celebrate our 300th post (this is it), we've redecorated the place.

And we'll be giving away a lot of books in our new contests, which will run every two months. To be eligible, all you have to do is become part of our community by posting in the "Comments" section. Every comment creates a new entry, so Frequent Remarkers can tote up lots of chances to win.

Occasionally Asked Questions:
Can I comment anonymously and still win?
Absolutely. But choose a pseudonym for yourself (like Pearl 'o Wisdom).

What will I win?
An autographed book from each StoryBroad. Six packages arriving at your door!

When will the first winner be announced?
August 19th, the same week we'll be celebrating our first-year StoryBroad anniversary. There may be some special anniversary presents to go along with the winner's books.

See you in the Comments sections!

An Ode To A Father (Patricia Potter)

I cannot let this weekend go without acknowledging Father’s Day and all it represents.

There are some who decry Mother’s and Father’s Days as mere products of commercialization. But I always loved both. We don’t always tell those we love exactly how much we love them. Words get buried on the hectic pace of lives.

And as kids, sometimes we don’t have the full realization of all our parents have done and do for us. That comes later when we, in turn, are mothers and fathers.

Mother’s and Father’s Days are reminders to us. They give us a chance to do what we probably should be doing 364 days a year but somehow let all those chances slip by.

I was extraordinarily lucky with my parents. My dad was an engineer with NASA. He was outgoing and funny and loved my mother from the first moment he saw her. It was his favorite story and I never tired of hearing it. He was always, I think, a little bemused by me, by what he help create. I didn’t follow his idea of what a daughter should do: study education, become a teacher, marry and have children.

But he supported me when I chose journalism and resisted marriage. He was proud as punch when I took him to an opera when I was music and art editor and took him backstage. He was even happier when I was able to get him much coveted tickets to the Masters Golf Tournament. It almost made up for not giving him grandchildren. Almost.

He was a good golfer, a fine teller of tales, a great friend and a religious man who loved his pastor because “it was so hard for the pastor to be good.” He appreciated that. He liked a pastor who enjoyed a martini now and then, who didn’t object to a bit of gossip (non-malicious) and even said a wicked word now and then.
He was suspicious of perfection.

He was a historian by heart. He knew as much about history as most history professors, and his knowledge was probably more comprehensive. Mention any country and he could give you its history going back to the beginning of time. He devoured books about history. He devoured books, period. He loved to read, as his own father loved to read. I still have a set of history books ppublished in 1912 that his father, then he, treasured. We had three separate sets of encyclopedias in the house and he'd read each one start to finish.

He couldn’t go to a four year college because of money. His father had died, and there were six children to educate. He applied for and was accepted by West Point and Annapolis with high scores, but a spot on his lung disqualified him. Thwarted in that attempt, he sold his mother’s pies from door to door, and went to a three year technical school and became a tool maker. From that beginning he became one of the top engineers in NASA and a friend of Werner Von Braun. Anything could be accomplished, he thought, by hard work. He was very big on responsibility.

He was also somewhat of a prude. Black was black, and white was white. One married forever and heaven forbid that anyone had sex outside it. When I wrote my first romance, I trembled at the thought of him reading it. Good heavens above, there was sex in it, and I was his unmarried daughter. Then one day, he called. He and mom were on vacation in Canada, and they had found my first book. He went up and down the streets, showing strangers the book his daughter wrote. He loved it.

He became my biggest fan. He would go in book stores and accost women and tell they should read my book. He would stick my books in the best seller slots. He talked his golfing buddies – all retired military types – into reading my books, and they all became fans.

He died four years ago, and there isn’t a day I don’t miss him. But maybe always more on Father’s Day because that’s when I made dinner and shopped for something I really, really thought he would love. It wouldn’t have mattered, though. He would have loved anything.

Happy Father’s Day, Pop.

Snarkilicious (LynnK)

Snark has always been with us.

Not the word itself, which is first recorded in 1906. But if Adam and Eve weren’t snarking at each other on the way out of the garden, you can bet the snake had a few sharp words to say. What else is a forked tongue for?

Nowadays, the word seems to be everywhere. But it’s still too new for a definition to have stuck. In the original dialectical British, it meant "nag" or "find fault with." It’s associated with being "catty" or "bitchy." Nasty. Snide. Impertinent. Irreverent. But it can also refer to a witty amalgam of sarcasm and cynicism. For sure, with regard to all its shades of meaning, the "sound" of snark is just right.

And maybe snark is one of those things that we recognize when it’s in front of us. Or think we do, because individuals have decidedly different reactions to snark. That’s become clear to me as I lurk on lists where the subject is hotly disputed.

Some people find it arrogant, demeaning, and hurtful. It can certainly prowl that territory. Snark pops up without warning in book reviews, book discussions, and blogs. Other times, fair notice is offered in a title (like the agent "Miss Snark"), and some snarkers become known by reputation. An author who ventures into their realms can expect to feel the hair on her nape stand to attention.

Are we, being "public figures" (even if we are practically chained to our computers) fair game? Or are we being unfairly insulted? Picked on? Even slandered?

Certainly most of us are hurt by unfavorable comments about our books. But that comes with the territory. Yes, we think of our books as offspring and coddle them like babes. We’re naturally protective. Then again, our profession is no field of daisies. Most of us have been or will be rejected by agents, by editors, by readers, by booksellers, by reviewers, and sometimes (this is worst of all) sabotaged by authors we thought were friends.

But the Internet, populated by suddenly empowered people who often use pseudonyms (which I have no problem with, by the way), has unleashed millions of razored tongues, some of which are attached to small brains and shriveled hearts. Cyberbullying has become a blood sport. And the folks who take the cheap shots at us don’t even have to run for cover.

This all sounds as if I’m here to protest nastiness on the web. Nope.

It’s a jungle out there, to be sure. And I don’t like a lot of what I read. Or agree with it. As a political junkie, I’ve encountered plenty of vituperative attacks about and from people on every side of controversial issues. And as an author, I’ve ached over stuff said about me and my friends, and about writers I don’t know but do admire.

At the same time, I think that letting everyone with a computer spout off is absolutely terrific. There’s some great writing out there. Personal slants on all kinds of subjects that pry open my own mind and cause me to rethink my sometimes shallow convictions.

Mostly, though, I love the wit. The repartee. The puns. The analogies. The song parodies. Being on dial-up, I rarely see a YouTube video. But being confined to words is fine with me. And if I’m uncomfortable reading what’s being said about me, I don’t have to Google my name. Nor do I, actually. I’ve got me right here. I’d rather read about more interesting people!

As for snark, the more the merrier. If it carries a truth, all the better. And if it’s shiny with venom, well, one click will take me off the bully’s playground. This one thing is certain: The world would be a lot poorer without its snark-wielders:

"Wit is educated insolence." Aristotle

"Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words." Dorothy Parker (pictured above)

"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former." Albert Einstein

"Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo." H.G. Wells

"You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance." Edward Flaherty

"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." Dorothy Parker

"Very noble gesture. My favorite kind - dramatic, yet completely empty." Dr. House

"The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech." George Bernard Shaw

"Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers." T. S. Eliot

"If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me." Alice Roosevelt Longworth

Mexican Food and Boom Babies (Maggie)

What do you do when you've got a pile of work to get done, are way behind schedule, and an opportunity for fun arises?

Answering that question can tell you a lot about where you are in life at a given moment or on a given day. It happened to me yesterday, and because I've decided life is too short not to spend every possible minute doing exactly what you want, milking life for all the joy it has to offer, I set the work aside for an afternoon, and went for the fun.

Let me 'splain. No, there's no time, let me summarize. I spent two gruelling days not only completing my daily writing quota, but also reading through a 420 page printout (for DEMON'S KISS, on sale in December) in 48 hours flat. On day three, I had another hundred page novella to read through, and did that before my daily writing, since I was already in reading mode. I was nearly finished when my best girlfriend Michele called. That's her with me in the pic up top. She'd just returned from her aunt's funeral and needed to get out. I didn't even hesitate. I was in. Screw work. I don't think we look back on life as it winds down, and regret that we didn't work more. I rather think the opposite is true. So I finished reading the novella, hopped in the shower, and threw on some clean jeans. She arrived, and we took off. She was thinking of going to the mall, to hunt for a dress for her daughter's wedding. But we started out at Joanne's Fabric, where she needed some scrapbooking supplies. She was afraid I'd be bored there (not into crafts or Suzy Homemaker stuff, but I'm never bored with her!) I shopped around the place, and found some things that made me smile. A set of bamboo windchimes, and two little stuffed birds--a red-tail hawk, my personal totem, and a loon. When you squeeze them, they do their version of the actual bird's call. The hawk screams like it's about to snag a snake, and the loon sings that mournful loon song that can break your heart. I was absolutely delighted.

Then we headed for Syracuse and the mall, but as we got closer, I suggested we keep going straight instead of taking the turn to the mall, because only a few miles ahead were some of the best shops Syracuse has to offer. Seven Rays, and Boom Babies. I told her the best dresses in the city were waiting for her there. She'd never been.

So we drove to Westcott St, tucked away where you'd least expect it, and slid to the parking lot behind Seven Rays, then went in the back door. I always love people's first reaction to that shop. It really doesn't look like much from the rear--what shop does? But once inside, my pal's eyes lit up. Seven Rays is an occult book store, by definition, but it's so, so much more. The space is huge, and the energy just sparkles. The entire place is brimming, not just with books (though there are those--hundreds of them--) but with racks of glittering gemstones, stacks of fragrant incense, cases overflowing with the most unique, gorgeous jewelry, magick wands, staffs, sacred statuary, some of it utterly magnificent. Giant Buddha sculptures, and little ones too, and Kwan Yin, and Ganesha too. The place is overloaded with unique, exotic, fascinating things. So many more than I can list here. They also do massage, psychic readings, hold classes and workshops, and have drumming circles twice a week.

Despite our fascination with Seven Rays, I dragged my friend through it, and out the front door, promising to come back later, and we crossed the street to Boom Babies, since a dress was our mission for the day. And once again, her eyes lit up. The dresses in this store seem to me to be dresses you can't find anywhere else. Certainly not at the malls. Like kids in a candy store, we picked out dresses, and eager employees hung them in fitting rooms, side by side, where they awaited us. We looked and looked and picked and chose, and ooohed and ahhhed. I chose about six dresses to try on, and she chose more. (And I didn't even have an event in mind for mine. You'd understand if you saw these numbers. No woman could resist.)

Then we dove into our fitting rooms, and started trying them on. Each time we were dressed, we'd pop out and inspect each other, turning, critiquing, oohing and ahhing some more. Laughing as we assisted each other with zippers and hooks.

In the end, my pal found a gorgeous gown for her daughter's wedding. The color matches the bridesmaids' gowns, but it has sequins and beads that will make it stand out. It was a little too big, but she has another friend who can do alterations (and she promised to introduce me!) I found two dresses that I was dying to have, but decided to choose only one. They were running a sale--buy one dress, get the second for half price. So she and I each got fabulously expensive, glittering, beaded gowns, and we split the savings. Mine looks Eqyptian, and I swear Cleopatra would have been jealous. I'm going to snap a pic of it, though it looks better on me than on the hanger. I'll get a shot wearing it as soon as I have an occasion worthy of its beauty.

After that, it was too late to go back to shop at Seven Rays. I had made another promise to do something for another friend that evening and had to be back by six. We had just time enough to carry our carefully wrapped gowns, the kind of dresses that make a woman feel like a princess, or better, an Empress, or even better, A Goddess, and we went back across the street to this wonderfully authentic Mexican Cantina, and I'm kicking myself that I can't remember its name, but it was fabulous and I'll post it as soon as I remember. We ordered way more than we could hope to eat, and Diet Cokes. =) And the food was incredible, just as the women at Boom Babies had told us it would be. Fresh veggies, salsa made right in the kitchen. Oh, yeah, it was great. Which reminds me, I have some quesadillas left over in the fridge and I'm going to have them for breakfast!

After that we went back through Seven Rays just to let them know we'd used all our time but would be back. I imagine before the day is out we'll be planning our next trip up there. We really didn't get a chance to shop Seven Rays. And I might just buckle and buy that second dress from Boom Babies. And some shoes. And maybe some jewelry to go with. And they even had some belly dancing items. I only saw hip scarves but I bet they had entire costumes in there somewhere.

So we came back home. I barely had time to let the dogs out, grab a green tea, and check my phone messages before it was time to head out again. A good friend of mine, one of my former students of magick and Wicca and the like, who now runs a group of her own, had agreed to do a house blessing and lead an observance of the dark moon at another friend's house. But her job sent her out of town, and at the last minute (the night before) she asked if I could do it. I've really been taking a break from active teaching and leading the group over the past year, but I found myself ready to dive back in. So I said yes. And last night, on the dark moon, I gathered with several other women and one man, and we moved in procession through her house, wafting the fragrant smoke of sage and rosemary, sprinkling specially blessed waters, ringing bells, and carrying blazing white candles. We moved through the entire house, filling it with positive energy and blocking out any negativity. We said a little blessing to seal the deal and then we went outside to gather around a small bonfire. We observed the dark moon by focusing on things we need to release from our lives. It was a tough one for me, but it was time. We wrote the things down, then sat, holding the papers in our palms, eyes closed, really focusing on releasing those things from our lives. Then one by one we tossed those bits of paper into the fire and watched them burn. Fire destroy and fire create, let what's written become fate. Everything we released will be transformed into something new, something better. It was good. I cried a little, but it was good.

After that we got out the drums. We drummed a bit, we sang a bit. And it was good.

I told my best bud yesterday on my shopping trip that I've decided that when anyone asks me to do anything I might enjoy, from now on, I will alway say yes. No matter what else might be going on (short of someone being ill or in dire need of me.)

Last week I said I was reclaiming my life. I said my goal was to sign up for either belly dance class or flying lessons and apply for a passport. Well, I did find a belly dance class and I did join. The second session is tonight, and I love it. I didn't do the flying lessons or passport yet, but I fully intend to. And as for the dating, I kept that promise to myself too. One date this week, really nice guy and I enjoyed myself. No chemistry, but it was still fun. Next week I have another, with another really terrific guy with whom there seems to be some excellent chemistry. So it's all good.

Life is short. Lick the beaters. Or in other words, you never really get where you're going. You really don't. You never really get it right, and you honest to goodness never really get it done. So the key is to enjoy the journey. Yesterday that's exactly what I did. And you know what? I've gotten more work done this week than I usually do when I keep my nose the grindstone all week long and have no fun at all. That should tell me something, shouldn't it?

Carpe Diem (Baby.)

Maggie

A little slow, but oh so glorious!

I have a garden!!! It's all my own. I worked the land. Bought the dirt. The flowers. Dug and weeded and planted and the results are...

Well, I guess a lot of you know what the results are. I can't believe I've lived long enough to have a daughter taking the bar exam and I've never weeded a garden. Or planted flowers on my own. I had no idea that the end result of beautiful flowers to look at is only the icing on the cake.

It started out as a curb appeal thing. We're getting ready to sell the small house to buy a bigger one. And after three months of living in this small town in the midwest, I've realized that houses - the ones you want to look at - have flowers. But this isn't the desert where you put pretty varigated rock in your yard, plant some sturdy stems, turn on the irrigation system and walk away. This land doesn't just take trimming every couple of weeks. No, here you have grass everywhere - whether you want it or not, where you want it and where you don't. And it has to be mowed. Sometimes more than once a week. Not only that, grass begets weeds. Lots of them. Some that can grow a foot in a week. They're big and hairy with thick roots that go way down to you know where. Scary. They spread and take over and if you just go about your business they will eventually climb into the windows of your home and strangle you. I'm sure of it.

Not good for curb appeal. A bunch of weeds butted through windows and threading around their dead.

And...there are NO irrigation systems. At least, not the automatic kind. Here in this place YOU are the irrigation system. In conjunction with the faucet and the 100 foot of 200 pound tubing you attach to the faucet and then have to drag everywhere you go.

So you see how it started. Once again, I saw my fate. Grumbled about how it wasn't like this in Phoenix. Pictured my blue skies and sunshine and mountains. Counted the days until I'm back there again - nine to be exact - and went out to find some flowers to stick in the ground and cover up whatever else might be there so the house looked good from the curb. I bought marigolds (a favorite from my childhood.) And deep red petunias and pure purple pansies. And for the twenty-four foot diameter circle in the backyard I bought orange and gold lantana (my favorite from Arizona) and Arizona sunflowers (never even heard of them when I lived in Arizona.) I bought eight seventy pound bags of miracle grow potting soil. I planned to come home and dump the dirt - covering up all the blemishes. Dig some shallow holes, drop in the plants, cover them up and leave them to their business of doing whatever they do.

The next day I got up early, ready to spend an hour getting this job done and then get in to work on the pages I had to complete that day. Twelve hours later, with a back that ached so badly I could hardly stand, and a bruise the size of a baseball on the palm of my right hand, I had the front of the house READY for the dirt I'd bought. But at that point, I wasn't even sure I wanted to dump my store bought, premanufactured dirt. There was a new, clean, unpretentious garden lining the front of the house. Oh, it didn't have any flowers in it. It didn't have anything in it except a couple of metal garden decorations I'd bought the first week I was here. And a big porcelain duck. (I named him Lee.) But it was clean. I'd attacked that which was threatening to overtake me. One by one I'd faced my challenges, even spoken out loud to some of them. I'd told them that they weren't going to get the better of me. That I could handle them. Some of them were pretty determined. But when my little hand shovel couldn't dig deeply enough to get to the root of the problem, I went for the dig a ditch shovel. I worked hard. By the end of the day, I'd conquered every single one of them - and even stopped to get some at the side of the house, too. I was looking for weeds at that point. Bring them on. I can handle them. I was addicted to the feel good of holding the defeated root in my hand. Addicted to the knowledge that I could persevere. And succeed. I'd done good.

The next day, worried about all the money I'd spent on those flowers, I hauled those heavy bags of dirt (my man had left them in stragegic places for me, but you know that never works as it should) I slit them open and I dumped them. I took a hoe to the results, spreading the mounds of healthy soil. And then I kneeled. For a really really long time. With a sore hand and a sore back I proceeded to dig more than one hundred holes. And painstakingly and loving lay each little pod of roots in place, scooping dirt with my hands to cover them, pat them gently and move on to the next.

In the end I had a colorful array that brought tears to my eyes. It might have been the back, or the hand - or the knees. It might have been the lost time, or the fact that I missed Phoenix and the heart that I left there. It might have been. But it wasn't. These tears were thankful tears. They were grateful tears. Because out of every bad, horrible deathly thing that happens, there's a flower garden waiting to be born. If you're willing to do the work.

Now anybody got watering tips???

Best Laid Plans (Suzanne Forster)

My blog last Tuesday was about discrimination of the basis of appearance. I’d seen an Oprah show and been dismayed by the assertion—and anecdotal evidence—that some of the most painful discrimination goes on within racial groups, and that contrary to conventional wisdom, we may apply harsher standards to those most like us, and closest to us.

The responses I got to the blog were brilliant and thought-provoking. I wanted to do a follow-up, but it was going to be based on a private email I received that raised some very provocative questions. My plan was to quote from the email, which I now find I can’t put my hands on. Did I mention that my computer eats email?

I’m hoping to have a replacement email to quote from by next Tuesday, but meanwhile, I’m not completely blogless. I found a little something in my files that I thought was priceless—and useful! I don’t where it originated, but I’ve tried the three little words and they work like a charm, so I’m sharing them with all of you.

HANDLING TELEMARKETERS AND JUNK MAIL!!

Tips for Handling Telemarketers:

Three Little Words That Work!!

(1) The three little words are: "Hold On, Please..."

Saying this, while putting down your phone and walking off (instead of hanging up immediately) would make each telemarketing call so much more time-consuming that boiler room sales would grind to a halt.

Then when you eventually hear the phone company's "beep-beep-beep" tone, you know it's time to go back and hang up your handset, which has efficiently completed its task.

These three little words will help eliminate telephone soliciting.

(2) Do you ever get those annoying phone calls with no one on the other end?

This is a telemarketing technique where a machine makes phone calls and records the time of day when a person answers the phone. This technique is used to determine the best time of day for a "real" sales person to call back and get someone at home.

What you can do after answering, if you notice there is no one there, is to immediately start hitting your # button on the phone, six or seven times, as quickly as possible. This confuses the machine that dialed the call and it kicks your number out of their system. Gosh, what a shame not to have your name in their system any longer!

(3) Junk Mail Help: When you get "ads" enclosed with your phone or utility bill, return these "ads" with your payment. Let the sending companies throw their own junk mail away. When you get those "pre-approved" letters in the mail for everything from credit cards to second mortgages and similar junk, do not throw away the return envelope.

Most of these come with postage-paid return envelopes, right? It costs them more than the regular thirty-seven cents postage "IF" and when they receive them back.

It costs them nothing if you throw them away! The postage was around fifty cents before the last increase and it is according to the weight. In that case, why not get rid of some of your other junk mail and put it in these cool little postage-paid return envelopes.

One of Andy Rooney's (60 Minutes) idea: Send an ad for your local chimney cleaner to American Express. Send a pizza coupon to Citibank. If you didn't get anything else that day, then just send them their blank application back! If you want to remain anonymous, make sure your name isn't on anything you send them.

You can even send the envelope back empty if you want to just keep them guessing! It still costs them thirty-seven cents.

The banks and credit card companies are currently getting a lot of their own junk back in the mail, but folks, we need to OVERWHELM them. Let's let them know what it's like to get lots of junk mail, and best of all they're paying for it...Twice!

Suz

Oooops (Anne Stuart)

Family emergency, so no time to chat. Instead I'll leave you with some pretty pictures.

First we've got Shane, the hottest cowboy who ever lived (David Carradine in his very young, incredibly sexy prime). He gave me my first book, BARRETT'S HILL, plus a couple of western novellas I wrote for Berkley and St. Martins.

Then we have Daniel Day-Lewis in his prime (I do like prime meat) who gave me A ROSE AT MIDNIGHT and TO LOVE A DARK LORD.

And then there's Yoshiki, who gave me a novella and ICE BLUE.

Gackt, who gave me THE DEVIL'S WALTZ (and part of Taka in ICE BLUE)

And there's Reno from Final Fantasy VII and Hyde as inspiration for Reno in the upcoming FIRE & ICE.

But the all time winner for book inspiration, the one who inspired bits of MONSTER IN THE CLOSET (in the Shadows collection), the novella in TO LOVE AND CHERISH (or whatever that was called), LORD OF DANGER and half a dozen others, including Elric in THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES (just his attitude -- Elric looks like Howl and was inspired by Full Metal Alchemist) -- the winner of the Sister Krissie Award for Inspiration is:

Alan Rickman!

So who's your favorite of all these? Are you curious who inspired certain books? Ask and I shall tell. Sometimes I don't even realize it until later (Alan Rickman's voice in THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES was a complete surprise).

Now I'm off to do damage control. A mother's work is never done. But in the meantime, let me know who of my choices appall you and who you adore.

And what other heroes you're curious about.

A Celebration of Fathers

When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. Mark Twain

A father carries pictures where his money used to be. Author Unknown

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name. William Wordsworth

By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong. Charles Wadsworth

A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty. Author Unknown

Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope. Bill Cosby

So let's record here a tribute to our fathers, our husband-fathers, our sons who are fathers, or even the fathers we have wished for.

DELIVERY IS NEAR!!! (Patricia Potter)

There is no event quite as full of exultation as the completion of a book.

I think it must be like having a child. The first stirrings of life, the months of development, the excitement when the baby kicks, then the desperate hope that the baby will perfect and everyone will love him and her.

You live the story for five or six months. Sometimes a year. The characters overtake your life. They fill your dreams. They occasionally have to be chastised for unruly behavior.

I expect to feel that great exultation combined with fear – what if no one likes my baby? -- later today when the book must, absolutely must, go to Fed Ex no later than six p.m.

Thus a shorter blog than usual. There’s still labor pains – editing -- to go.

But at least the story’s done! And that alone is a great feeling. At long last I know the ending. Until the last few days I didn’t have the slightest idea of how it was going to end.

And tonight, I’ll celebrate a new birth.

Hope you all will join me in a toast. Seven o’clock sharp.

Tech Me Down (Lynn Kerstan)

It sits nearby, my nemesis, to the right and almost within reach if I lean forward and stretch out my arm. Its small, single eye glows green, fades to black, and slithers back into view. A sign of life, like a heartbeat, among those of its species.

The creature is quiet now, sleeping atop the scruffy end table. Hibernating. Conjuring dark dreams. Plotting my downfall. I know its kind.

And yet, I have never seen its like. I don’t know how to control it. Worse, it has come a foreigner onto my territory. I do not speak its language.

Actually, it’s been here since the second week of February, cradled in styrofoam, enclosed in the shipping box, sitting on the floor. Often with a cat sitting on top of it. I was afraid to let it out.

And for good reason. This is my seventh computer (fourth notebook), and each one has driven me to the brink of madness.

I bought the Dell 6400 because a) it was on sale and b) offered free shipping and c) my current machine is certain to die (again) at any time. After the last hard disk crash, I was determined to switch all my data to a frisky new machine before the Final Doom.

With me, however, determination is fleeting. This time it was gone four months. But it scampered home when I learned that my treasured little Ipod could only mate with one computer. If the slut tried to hook up with another computer, it would immediately regain its virginity. Meaning that all my precious songs would be wiped out.

What’s more, my Ipod’s original Love Machine resides a couple thousand miles away, which is frightfully inconvenient. Every time I want to add music, the Ipod must trek to Indianapolis. I have at last resigned myself to the inevitable . . . learning iTunes and reprogramming the Ipod. And because I don’t want to have to make this computer transition more than once, it’s time to rouse the new laptop and put it to work.

Well, it was Time . . . five frustrating days ago. I did get the beast up and running, but it’s been downhill or uphill (whichever is worse) since then. I think some fiend designs computers to make us feel stupid and dependent.

For example. The set-up card advises me to click the icon on Desktop to print the Owner’s Manual. Oh, I loves me some solid written matter! I can’t hardly never find anything on the Dell website, and downloading with dial-up is the pits. Give me a book anytime.

So I had to install the printer. And it was easy. All I had to do was attach it to a USB port and the computer welcomed it with open binaries. Or something. It now shows up as my default printer.

Not that I can be sure it’s really operational, because I haven’t attempted to print anything. Remember that icon I was supposed to click for the manual? I tried every icon on the machine. Every search function. No such beastie.

And then there is Vista. I spent the first two days just figuring out how to do stuff I can do on non-Vista in my sleep. Like, oh, turn off the computer. All Vista does is warn me that bad things can happen if I do anything at all. Not sure what bad things. Maybe it sends Robert Goulet to mess with my stuff.

Some folks on writers’ lists said Vista wouldn’t work with WordPerfect, but it did let me load the software. Of course, I haven’t checked to see if it's really there and operational. As with the untried printer, I’m operating on Faith and the inability to deal with any more failures.

Same for going on-line, which I dare not do without an anti-virus program. But Vista says it doesn’t play well with McAfee, and on its website McAfee says it does, too, by gosh, so who ya gonna trust? I don’t like caving to Bill Gates by using the Norton 30-day trial that came with the laptop. But then, McAfee took days to answer my two brief emailed questions and just told me I needed to contact another department. Gotta love these guys.

So we are at stalemate, my Dell 6400 and I. It sits and broods, one green eye winking malevolently. The auld computer I’m typing on now is wheezing like an old man with emphysema.

Must. Do. Something.

But when I reach out for 6400, I am threatened by the seven (count ‘em) buttons on the front of the new Dell. Current laptop has no such critters. Each bears a mysterious symbol, and I have no idea what any of them is trying to tell me.

The only message I’m getting right now is: Run far. Run Fast.

Any computer nightmares of your own to share? Or helpful hints about working with Vista? Misery loves company. And I'm pretty desperate.

Life Goes On

(This photo is from the recent wedding. Christine, me, and Janina, posing with phallic-shaped wands and asking the age old questions, "Who needs men?")

Yesterday was a great day. I woke up feeling good for the first time in awhile, got my pages written early, and decided to go into town to run a few errands. And while I was there, I thought I'd drive by the car dealerships and just look. And then I pulled into one of them, just to browse a bit. And then I decided to drive one of the vehicles, just for the heck of it. And an hour later, I had bought it.

I do tend to be an impulse buyer. But it's been a while since I've spent any of my income on myself, so it was time. Details: I traded my beloved Belladonna, a black 02 Nissan Altima who featured heavily in BLUE TWILIGHT (she was Stormy's car, right down to the floor mats and seat covers) for a silver Nissan Murano. The Murano is all-wheel drive, which I need on my roads. And it is loaded. Power sunroof, heated leather seats, Bose sound system with a six-cd changer, and it starts without a key as long as the little electronic keyring is on you. It's pretty awesome. The only complaint I have so far is that the mileage the dealer told me to expect is not what is showing up on the digital panel. I'll call about that today.

I have to tell you, though, as I left the dealer with the new Murano, I pulled to a stop behind Bella, and got out to say goodbye. And I actually cried a little. (But goodbyes tend to do that to me.) I really loved that car, and even though she wasn't giving me what I needed anymore, I hated to let her go. The new one is great, but I don't love it yet. I haven't even given it a name, or gotten to know it very well. But I'm pretty sure it'll be better. Isn't it funny how much you can miss something, even when you know the next thing will be better? There were some great memories made in that Altima, some road trips that were some of my best times ever. But it was time to let them go, and even though moving on is hard, it's inevitable. (Did you ever see anyone get so emotional over a freakin' car? Okay, okay, I'm a romance writer. So sue me.)

Looking ahead now. One of my goals for the week is to send away for my passport, so I'm ready to drop everything and just run away to someplace exotic on a moment's notice. It's amazing that I've never done that by now. Another goal, I'll give myself the whole month for this one, is to find a great place to board the dogs, to make that exotic spur of the moment getaway possible. And I'm going to sign up for flying lessons or belly dance classes, or both. And I'm going to finish this book on time. And I'm going to stop saying no to every guy who asks me out. Effective immediately. From now on, my motto is to live life to the absolute fullest, embrace every opportunity for joy, pursue happiness ruthlessly until I find it, and have all the fun possible in the process.

"Selfishly seek joy, because joy is the greatest gift you can give to anyone. Unless you are in your joy, you have nothing to give away." --Abraham

I've been missing my joy for awhile. But I'm reclaiming it now. And hey, I'm open to suggestions and ideas. Post your thoughts on seeking joy. What do you do for the sole purpose of making yourself happy? (And if you can't answer that, my guess is you're long overdue!)

Maggie

Shoes and Purses and Things that Matter (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I love shoes. And purses. And socks, too, for that matter. Pretty socks with colorful designs, or soft colors with understated designs. Soft socks, with the slightest bit of cushioning. Socks. Things we all have. That are a pain in the you know what when they come out of the dryer and you have to match them up. Most particularly when you end up with an odd man out. Socks aren't all that expensive - unless you're me and sometimes just end up spending more than you should because the sock is particularly well designed and soft and cushy in all the right places and made for roller blading and guarantees no blisters, then you might spend far too much for a pair of socks. But generally they're cheap. And easy to come by. Even in my small town, I have an entire array of socks to choose from were I to feel the compulsion to buy more. Socks. Plebian. Every day. Something we take for granted and probably not worth the paragraph I've just spent on them. Except - let's think about the job of socks. They cover the feet. Have you ever studied reflexology? Do you know that your feet contain points that related every other part of your body? Think about that. There is a spot on your foot that you can touch that corresponds to another part of you and if that other part is hurting you can often lessen the pain by finding the proper point on your foot and applying pressure. And if you don't believe that, think about this - your feet sustain you. All day long. Every day. They hold all of your weight (including the weight on your shoulders.) They stand for you, take you wherever you need to go. They walk and run and stand on tip toe so you can reach the top shelf. They dance. And push the gas and flap in the water when you're swimming, keeping you afloat. As a matter of fact, there is very little that we do in our day that doesn't involve our feet serving us in some capacity. So, you see the importance of socks? It's their job to take care of the feet. To comfort them. Keep them warm and protected and healthy. During my recent move my aunt, who was helping me pack, counted how many pairs of socks she packed for me. 128, I'm told. I'd never counted them. I have 128 pairs of socks!!

And then there are purses. There were almost one hundred of them. Ditto the shoes. Now these aren't all expensive, new shoes and purses. No, I've got shoes and purses that date back to college when I first started carrying purses. I've got the purse I carried when my twenty-one year old daughter was a newborn baby. And probably the shoes I wore, too. Sitting here at my desk, as I look around, I see a collection of little miniature shoes in every color and style - all of them purchased for me as gifts from various people in my life over a many year span. And arcing around my monitor is a collection of little gold clocks - mostly shoes and purses. And there are four Brighten purse picture holders. Why is this? Shoes, purses, socks - everyday things that pretty much every woman uses (and men, too minus the purses). Yet they mean so much to me.

I was driving down the main street in this little town that's now my home. (Not to be confused with Main Street which is really the highway that leads you out of town.) No, the street I was on - the same name as the street I lived on in my former life, by the way - is the main drag where Wal-Mart and the grocery store and the nail place and the dollar store and all the fast food restaurants and the gas station and car wash are. And a couple of days ago, as I made my way down the strip - which I have to do if I plan to get anywhere from where I live - I glanced to my side, where McDonald's is - and saw instead a pile of rubbish. I couldn't believe it. For years I met my daughter for breakfast at McDonald's. Since I've been in this town, I'd taken up the practice several mornings a week as a way to feel closer to her. And there, before my eyes, was a pile of rubbish. They'd completely leveled the place. And in the middle of the rubbish were color pieces of the play place that had been in the back. I could see one of the round plastic bubbled windows that had been at the top of the staircase the kids used to climb. And pieces of the tubes that used to be slides. I couldn't believe it. Still can't. Who ever heard of a McDonald's being torn down? Or even going out of business for that matter? McDonald's. A comfort place. A comfort thing. Likes shoes. And purses. And socks.

Last night I was having a conversation with my college sweetheart. We were talking about relationships - then and now. About the feelings that we think are the be all and end all of a relationship - if you're in love it'll work. Period. Except that he and I were very much in love. And the insecurities of youth and some misplaced words were all it took to convince each of us that the other wasn't in love. We lost each other - both of us with broken hearts that were going to lead us to future painful choices. Each of us thinking we were the only one with broken heart. And then this tender, sweet man who is no longer afraid to put his heart on the line told me something he'd said before. Something I'd never understood. The big stuff is easy he said. Well, I'd always silently argued with that and missed the message. The big stuff is hard. Damned hard. Change, choices - even good ones - are hard. But his point was that the big stuff is easy to see. It's big. We each saw the love we had for the other. I knew full well how much I loved him. He knew that he loved me. That was the big stuff. What I missed was the small stuff. He told me, you have to go to the small things every day. Day after day. You have to go to the socks and the purses and the shoes and the McDonald's. You hand someone a towel as they're getting out of the shower. (Well, if you're supposed to be in the bathroom that is!) You make the coffee, or re-fill the cup. You bring a jacket or sweater when you notice a shiver. You move over and make room on the chair. You remember to call when you know something important was going on. You remember to call when nothing at all is going on. You send a text message, or an e-mail, or leave a voice mail every single day. You offer to drive. Fill the tank with gas. Take the dog out. Have something planned for dinner. You stop what you're doing and smile when someone walks in the door.

You remember to love socks and shoes and purses. And McDonald's. You go to the small things day after day. And if you're like me, all over the place and deep and listening to too many voices in your head and prone to getting lost in the business of life, then you collect socks and purses and shoes and little shoe and purse clocks and porcelain renditions and you set them around you to remind you, every single day, what really matters.

Enough IS Enough (Suzanne Forster)

Well, I told myself not to blog about this issue because it’s probably sky-high on the sensitivity scale and has the potential to be offensive to both genders and almost every race, which is pretty much all of us. And did I mention controversial? But clearly I’m about to tackle it anyway. I just can’t get the stories and the images out of my mind. Possibly I’m still in some kind of shock. I really do have to stop watching Oprah.

There are actually at least three issues involved, although technically they probably can’t be separated. One concerns bias within groups, i.e., how we pick on and ostracize others of our own race. The second is the larger issue of our national, and perhaps universal, cultural biases. And the third is how we tend to focus on women as symbols of our need for (racial) perfection, for lack of a better term. I’m not a scientist and I’m sure there are more precise ways to label these issues, but perhaps it will make more sense as I describe what I mean.

I’ve always known that there was discrimination in this country on the basis of appearance, and probably around the world. We have standards for beauty, many of them unconscious, complex and possibly not fully understood, but they do tend to dominate our perceptions, judgment and behavior. Studies have shown that people who meet these standards of beauty get preferential treatment, even from strangers.

I’m much more familiar with the treatment of people who don’t meet the standards. As a kid, I was nerdy, skinny and near-sighted, with hands and feet much too big for the rest of me. I took some merciless teasing and bullying, and for most of my school years and well into adulthood, I struggled with massive insecurities. It’s much better these days, partly because I’m at an age where I feel as if I’ve earned some respect, especially from myself, and a lot of the time, I’m not overly concerned what people think. It’s very liberating.

The Oprah show I saw sought to expose these standards of beauty, but in ways I wasn’t expecting. The guest I remember most vividly was an African American woman who’d been discriminated against because of the color of her skin. That didn’t surprise me. It’s an age-old problem. What did surprise me was the source of the discrimination. It came not from whites, but from other African Americans. Her skin was darker than the rest of her family and most of her friends. For this she was ridiculed, called names, and ostracized. Her childhood was a misery, and when she married and became pregnant, she actually prayed nightly that she would not have a child with skin as dark as hers.

But her beautiful baby boy had skin even darker than hers, a rich near black that she was convinced would bring him worse misery than she’d had. She was in tears describing the situation to Oprah. When they brought her teenage son out, he admitted he’d been treated so badly he’d considered taking his own life, and the treatment had come from his African-American peers. But a psychologist saw the real problem. The more she delved the more it became clear that the mother’s anxieties had deeply affected the boy’s perception of himself. The mother struggled to defend her parenting, saying that she’d always tried to make her son feel better about himself and that she had consistently praised his beautiful white teeth.
It was a light bulb moment, as Oprah describes epiphanies. But it was heartbreaking for both mother and son to realize that he had been victimized more by her fears and self-loathing than he had by any teasing he’d received at the hands of his schoolmates.

Still, the problem of discrimination within race is very real. A beautiful young Asian woman was another guest. She worked on MTV, in front of the camera, but I didn’t catch in what capacity. What struck—and horrified—me was her story. She talked, actually with great humor and earnestness, of the desire by many young Asian women to have western eyes. She described the myriad ways they tried to achieve a crease in their eyelids, including creams, sleeping with strange, painful things on their face, and survery. According to her, they met to scrutinize and criticize each other and discuss ways to get better results. She even related that other races have good hair days, but Asian women have good “eye” days. What was frightening was the sense of compulsion she conveyed.

So, has it come to this? People feel compelled to change the natural characteristics of their race, the features that mark them as African American, Asian, or any other nationality, and the pride in their appearance that should be their birthright, to meet an artificial standard of beauty? They believe the more ethnic their features the more bias they’ll encounter socially and in the job market. I want to hope that’s not true, but I’m sure it is—and that’s wrong. It’s disturbing. I thought I knew all about discrimination on the basis of appearance, but I didn’t know this was happening.

I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if it can be fixed. The perceptions seem so deeply ingrained and some of them may be wired into our psyches. Modern science claims that we’re drawn to a certain kind of beauty because it represents health and the ability to reproduce and survive. It helps to perpetuate the species. I don’t like even that much discrimination because it has little place in today’s society with advanced medical services making it possible for even the tiniest preemies to survive, but I understand it. I don’t understand—or maybe I don’t want to understand—why other races would want to forgo their own standards for the white standard. It must be the terrible societal pressure to be like the prized object, to blend and succeed. But racial beauty should be preserved and celebrated. Ebony skin should be a mark of distinction. Exotic almond eyes should be prized. And sometimes they are. But mostly, apparently, they’re not . . . so they’re being obliterated in the quest for homogeneity.

That makes me sad, just like being teased and chased in the fifth grade for wearing glasses made me sad. It hurts us all when we can’t embrace whatever is natural and beautiful and human. I wonder, I really do, what is stopping us from loving our differences as well as our similarities. What is this xenophobia that makes us hate ourselves to the point of sacrificing our identity? Something has gone wrong somewhere, and the only thing that can change it is us, one at a time, vowing to love what we have been taught to hate.

I know this is preachy. Sorry, it just disturbed me a lot. It wasn’t my intention to single out any particular race. I used the examples that came from the show, but I imagine it would be hard to find a race that hadn’t been affected by these biases in some way.

Suz

Juggling (Anne Stuart)

So I've got four projects going, and my brain is swirling. I'm a completely right-brained person (if you ever wonder which side is the intuitive side and which is the practical side, remember right equals write). So I'm an emotional, seat of my pants writer, and being organized is anathema. But with four projects you need to be organized.

First, and most important, I have Reno's story, and, true to form, he's been difficult and infuriating. And darling. I wrote the first couple of chapters before I had surgery, and now that I've come back to them they feel wrong. So I sent them off to friends and I now I have one chapter instead of two. Thanks, guys. (No, the stuff needed to go. I just hate un-writing).
So Reno's my heart and soul, he comes first.

Then I've got a Christmas anthology for Harlequin, which is going to be very cool. Working with two great women (well, three if you include our editor) and right now all I have to do is fine-tune my proposal so that it ties in with the others and then I can wait until the fall to write the sucker, but creative energy is creative energy and it's taking away from Reno, who's pretty damned demanding.

Then I've got THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES coming out. That's all written, but we're having a pretty busy website, and when you've collaborated with two other people it's not just your fate riding on it. So you give it all you've got, and it takes mental energy.

Finally there's our fun project, www.dogsandgoddesses.com that I want to play with, and talk to people, and toss stuff out to see how people react. Four projects, each pulling me.

And then there's a little thing called Life. Fires to put out, hands to hold, people to take care of (including me). It's no wonder writers get a little crazy.

But the good thing is, I'm one of those people who believe that out of craziness comes brilliance. Yes, brilliance can come from calm waters as well, and brilliance has a tendency to still the roiling seas (god, I'm getting carried away with my metaphor. Someone stop me!). There's nothing more empowering and calming than having written something fabulous for the day.

So I guess it's just life. Crazy or sane, busy or calm, it's what you do.

Anybody out there got tips for organizing your life and putting out five million fires? Having four projects is like having four needy children, and I want to give them all my full attention.

Help!

Summer Daydreams

A sorcerer has granted you one perfect summer vacation. No obligations to fulfill, no problems to deal with. Just the freedom to visit any destination in the world with the companion of your choice, all expenses paid.

Where would you go, and who would you take with you?

Great Heroes (Patricia Potter)

Being in the throes of finishing a book,this will be shorter than usual. I'm beginning a 20-hour-a-day dash to the finish which, hopefully, will be Monday.

I've talked about heroines in the past two weeks, but what about heroes? What makes a great hero and who are your favorites?

I divide mine into real and fictional. My all-time favorite fictional hero has to be Rhett Butler. Why? His complexity. I think every writer should go back and read Gone With The Wind because of its fantastic characterization. Few written portraits surpass Rhett Butler.

Despite his amused cynicism, he has a kindness and compassion that appears in unexpected ways. One of my favorite scenes is when he decides to join the Confederate Army. He doesn't do it when everyone thinks the south will win. He does it when he knows all is lost. And then, of course, there's his all-encompassing love for his daughter and strong friendship with Melanie and, at the same time, the madam of a house of joy. How can you not love a hero like him?

My second favorite fictional hero is the Scarlet Pimpernel. Who cannot love a man who repeatedly plays the fool to rescue the condemned? My book, "The Black Knave," is based on that story,and I never tire of the many film versions.

And real life heroes? Off hand, I think of two. Francis Marion, the legendary Swamp Fox, is one. He was in his fifties when he fought the British, an age equivalent to the seventies today. He lived in the swamps and emerged at night to fight the British. Walt Disney's series -- "The Swamp Fox" (I think that was the title) --completely entranced me, and my first book, "Swampfire" featured him as a main character.

One of my favorite stories about him: he drank vinegar every day and urged his men to do the same. They didn't. They got malaria. He didn't. Lesson here: if you go camping in a mosquito-ridden area, drink vinegar.

Note to Lynn -- hint, hint.

Second favorite historical character? William Wallace. He paved the way for the better remembered Robert the Bruce. No member of nobility, he nonetheless stoked the fire of freedom in Scotland against huge odds.

So those are mine. Who is yours? and why?

Best Friends Forever (Lynn Kerstan)

I’m still recovering from the four-day weekend I spent in Memphis. Delayed flights both directions. Suitcase destruction. Broken tooth, and all because of a dee-licious Corky’s barbequed rib. Itching and swelling from insect bites. Apparently my tender So-Cal flesh is a tasty treat for some pretty nasty critters. Whether mine or the mosquitoes’, chomping did me in.

But none of that matters the least little bit, because I had a fabulous time. And that’s because I was in company with two of my bestest friends.

Let it be said that Pat Potter is the finest hostess ever. It doesn’t hurt that she has a bath-water warm swimming pool. Two ginormous TV sets with features I only dream about, like play-on-demand and movies on order. Comfy beds. A "do whatever you want" attitude. And she’s a terrific cook as well. Mucho butter in everything. It will take me a month of diet and exercise to erase the consequences.

I was in Memphis to present an all-day writing workshop in partnership with Alicia Rasley, a superb writer, teacher, and critiquer. Before we both got too busy, we also collaborated on a couple of books. And the three of us served together for several years on the Romance Writers of America Board of Directors, which can be a crucible for the testing of friendships and endurance. That’s where I first met Pat and a number of my other favorite people.

What did we do all weekend? The usual. Laughed. Snacked on M&Ms. Drank rivers of club soda (me), Diet Coke (Alicia), coffee (Pat), and wine (all of us). Lounged by the pool. Swam under the stars. Continued the search for the World’s Finest Onion Rings.

But mostly we talked. Writing. Pop Culture. Politics. Social Justice. Music. Most Embarrassing Moments. Pat brainstormed the ending of her book-in-progress with Alicia while I played with the TV features and discovered my newest tormented and villainous romantic hero–the Bad Guy (Sir Guy of Gisborne) in BBCAmerica’s "Robin Hood." Yum.

Pat the Wondrous Cook arranged a dinner party for Sunday evening. It lasted six hours! Alicia added some of my favorite songs to the Ipod Shuffle she gave me for my birthday. For all practical purposes, I was pretty much useless. Well, on occasion, I fancied that I was entertaining. But maybe not. One thing was for sure: At no moment were we ever bored, or looking around for something better to do.

Generally speaking, women are good at friendship. But what makes us choose the friends we cherish? I gave that a lot of thought on the long trip back to San Diego, mentally rounding up the people in my life that I treasure and the ones I’d love to be closer to if circumstances allowed.

They are all very different, my close friends and maybe-someday-close friends, but I realized that they have a few important (to me) qualities in common. I’ve been speaking of Pat and Alicia, but others share those qualities to the max, including fellow StoryBroads Suz, Tara, Krissie, and Maggie.

We’re all writers, of course, although our books are quite different. But we love good stories of whatever kind. Also words, and the magic they create. We’re endlessly fascinated by the vagaries of human nature.

When it comes to art and music and experiences of all sorts, we’re omnivores. Nearly. We don’t like everything, but we understand why someone else might like things we don’t much care for. And we’re happy to be educated about everything that isn’t strictly propaganda.

I speak of my friends now, and the people I want to have as friends. For myself, I am of lesser virtue than most of them. They are invariably generous with their time and talents. Some have gentle personalities, others are snarky, but all are tolerant of differences and kind of heart. They forgive mistakes, acknowledge their own, and make amends.

But they are not wimps. Far from it. They repudiate falsehood and exploitation. They generally recognize bad intentions and behavior, but knowing what it is to be misinterpreted, they don’t pass judgment on others without careful consideration. They’ll leap to take the back of someone who is unjustly persecuted. They never, ever, gang up to persecute someone or stab her in the back.

Curiosity. Humor. A degree of fearlessness. Open minds. Open hearts. A profound desire for justice, tolerance, and–yes–a healthy regard for having a good time. A complete list of their excellent qualities would overload Blogger, so I'll jump to the quality I respect in these women above all others. That's the hard-core and luminous integrity that limns everything they say and do.

I’m lucky to call some of them friends, and lucky to have others as potential friends I aspire to have, should the Universe provide the opportunity. They are, blessedly, women kind enough to put up with me. I hope they'll continue to do so.

And at the least, I can claim this to my credit: I have superb taste in friends.

Cat Update: A new friend , Thea, who shares the qualities mentioned above, looked after Lymond while I was traveling. It’s clear he was well cared for, to the point he looked disappointed when I was the one coming through the door. He’s doing better, that’s certain, but still in trouble.

I may have identified a potential cause. Eating Kleenex. Or, in this case, Puffs. I caught him at it yesterday and can see why wood pulp passing through his system could cause blockage problems. Have removed access to tissues and will see if that makes a difference.

Meantime, tell us about your own bestest friends and why you love them.