Carpe Them Diems (LynnK)

A stranger has moved in with me. I almost never see her. She doesn’t bother the cat. Or clean, or eat, or help with the rent.

But I know she’s here. Every now and again, when passing a mirror or windowglass, I catch a glimpse of her. She’s drab, with more lines on her face than you’d find on a map of the world. Her hair is the color of a Brillo pad. Saggy bits and pieces of her prove the existence of gravity. I wish she’d go away.

But apparently I am stuck with her. She is my body. Not the one I feel, to be sure. Not even the one I inhabit. Definitely not the one I acknowledge. She lives in reality, poor thing, and I repudiate reality. My mind dwells, by choice, in D’Nial, a land where I look like I never did. Not even when I was wraith-slim and rather notably attractive.

I can’t be the only Boomer haunted by the Ghost of Geezer Future. Way back in 1961, when all the world lay in front of us, Jenny Joseph was writing a poem that has become an anthem for us all. It begins:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .

This sounds pretty much like license to do whatever we want. Age becomes shiny armor, protecting us from conscience and criticism, clanking so much that we can’t hear the negative voices. Or maybe it’s just calling us to let go our inhibitions and set a bad example for a change.

Lately, the media are full of stories about triumphant seniors. A woman in her 90's throws a heckuva shot put. Or puts a heckuva shot. What is that sport about, anyway?

Not long ago, a golfer scored her first-ever hole-in-one on a regulation course. She’s 103.

An expert on athletic performance notes that "average" (non-elite) female runners in their fifties are bettering the times achieved by women in their twenties. "...older women may be faster because, oddly enough, they are trying harder than younger women and discovering for the first time what they are capable of." He describes it as "a kind of wakening, an epiphany."

That’s certainly my idea of what we should be doing . . . minus the sweaty running part. With time’s winged chariot hurrying near, we need to wake up and get going on those epiphanies.

One of them, surely, is to work at staying, or becoming, healthy. I’ve made a firm commitment to that. No danger of me overdoing it, though. My natural state is inertia.

I’ve also thought of compiling one of those Life Lists that people are talking about. You know, coming up with (and pursuing) the "50 (or 100) Things I Want To Do Before I Die."

Given the shortening time and my lack of interest in anything that involves danger or too much effort, maybe I’ll go for a list of 20 or 25. Any suggestions? I’ll post my list when I’ve devised it (with your help, I hope). Feel free to post your own lists as well.

Time’s winged chariot is coming after us all. We may as well hitch a ride and fly while we can!

My Trip to NC, Part Two (Maggie)

Here I am as a crab. =) This shot was taken at the Aquarium in Emerald Isle, North Carolina, where my kids and I spent a glorious Sunday afternoon. We went to the beach, we hit the shops, we did the aquarium, then we went out for ice cream.

The weekend was great. We managed to squeeze in a week's worth of vacation into a couple of days, also hitting the malls, several restaurants, a couple of nightclubs and having an all around good time.

These are my kids, Lisa, Stacie, and Lisa's hubby Steve (the Marine) on the beach.

The traveling, on the other hand, was brutal. It took us 14 hours to make an 11 hour trip. The reasons? Several very long delays along the way. We traveled on I-81, I-95, and I-83. And every one of them was under construction. The cones start showing up. The right lane, the signs tell us, is closed. So we all mush until the left lane, and drive along for miles and miles and miles, fifteen to twenty of them sometimes, at a speed approximating 10 mph, and while the right lane is blocked by cones, there is nothing else in it. No equipment. No men working. No torn up pavement. No reason whatsoever why we couldn't be in using it. It's just darn ridiculous.

In only one case did we actually see any construction going on. In all the others, the lane was blocked, traffic jammed, travel delayed for no less than a full hour in each case, and we never did see any reason for it.

Besides the "invisible" construction going on, there were the usual fender benders causing additional delays, and then there was the ridiculous traffic situation in and round the DC Beltway. Just due to ordinary, everyday conditions, we spent an hour traveling about 10 miles through that mess. I cannot for the life of me believe people actually deal with that every day. No wonder everyone in Congress and the House is insane. Someone needs to fix that mess.

So aside from the travel though, the trip was great.

The dogs, however, didn't fare so well. Sally, the great dane, spend the weekend with my oldest daughter Jena, her husband Mike and their baby boy. They were Sally's previous owners, so we didn't expect a problem. However, problems there were. Sally gobbled up a sausage Mike had been about to cook, Mike shouted at her, startling her and she tried to bite him. Their other dog, an even more geriatric case than mine, Coda, apparently bit Sally on the hind leg. She came home shaking, nervous, and with a gash in her leg. Poor thing.

Wrinkles had a little too much fun. Son in law Tony took her for the weekend, and she spent much more time outdoors than usual, on a runner, with lots of kids around playing, which I'm sure she loved. But she's never outside much, has never been tied on any leash or runner in her life, and isn't used to kids, though she loves them. She came home limping pretty badly on one leg, and so exhausted she slept for 24 hours straight. The limp was gone by the next day, so it was nothing serious. Probably just overuse.

Anyway, here it is a day before my next trip. I've found a kennel that comes highly recommended by a friend who also has aging, delicate dogs. She says they're great. It's 45 minutes away, so that makes traveling a bit more complicated, but if they end up being the perfect place for my girls, it'll be worth any journey!

As I type this I'm getting ready to leave for Atlanta, and the huge convention known as Dragon Con. I'll be dropping the dogs at the new place this morning. So we'll see how they do. Wish me luck!

I've missed reporting on a lot of fun stuff, because there's been just so much of it lately. I went to a Godsmack Concert with a great pile of friends and relatives, and had a blast. Then just yesterday, took my Ella to the State Fair where we rode all the rides, ate all the junk food, and even say a Hilary Duff concert! That was a riot, too.

I think Dragon Con will be an adventure all its own, so I'll report on that. I'm bringing my camera!

Maggie

From the Heart (Tara Taylor Quinn)

We used to have this game called Mind Trap. It's an award winning educational game - ages 12 + - where players challenge each other with more than 500 riddles and puzzles to solve. I thought it was a great game. After all, what healthier gift to give yourself, or your children, than the opportunity to exercise your mind? (Other than love, of course, that's a given.) Today I see the shadow side of that gift. The mind is a terrible thing to waste. It's also a terrible thing to misuse. The mind sets us apart from all other living species. Makes us unique. Gives us the ability to find cures for horrible diseases and to bring comfort to those who are suffering. It's power is incalcuable. And so is the damage it can do.

A mind doesn't just have the ability to think up answers, to solve problems, it also has the ability to manipulate. And a good mind can manipulate without others even knowing that it's happening - sometimes for a lifetime. In the past couple of years I've come to see the undeniable truth of this fact, come face to face with the dangerous power the mind holds, seen the misuse of that power and the devastation that results.

I've been writing a thriller trilogy about a make believe organization, The Ivory Nation, that is fashioned after several very real and frightening organizations in existence today. It's members live among us, next door to us, befriending us, doctoring us and preaching to us from pulpits and political lecterns across our great country. The Ivory Nation is a White Supremacist organization. The tactics it uses emulate many used by organized religions and so seem natural and right and good and trustworthy. White supremacist organizations prey on the young, the idealistic, generally male but not always, giving lost and searching souls a purpose, a place to belong, a passion, a cause. Giving the greatest opportunity of all throughout history - the chance to be heroes, to sacrifice self for the greater good. Who doesn't love a guy, or a woman, who does that? We revere them. We wish we could be them. Look at Mother Theresa. How can a good hearted soul not love the spirit that embodied that woman?

The only problem is, in the case of supremacists, and other cults as well, the followers, the members are being manipulated into actions that are deplorable, all in the name of this greatest good. They are coached and led, their minds taught in such a way that they're being controlled without the person realizing what is happening, and soon what once would have seemed horrible, now seems heroic. The passion is kept alive by constant input from the teachings, brothers watch out for brothers, in love and protection, but also to insure, much like Alcoholic's Anonymous, that if one brother falters, the others will bring him back to the fold. He won't be allowed to get away long enough to gain back control of his mind (or in the case of alcoholics, to lose a very hard won control.) With AA, this tactic is life saving. In the hands of the manipulator it is deadly.

In the past six months I've been accused of exercising that power myself - not as a supremacist but as a parent, a friend, a daughter, a person. Accused by master manipulators. And here's where much of the danger comes in. The true manipulator points fingers at others to hide his own manipulation. How can I say I'm not manipulating when I've already been branded? Anything I say now can be construed as my mind's diabolical ability to mold people into my way of thinking, into actions that serve me. If someone believes I have this power, then, in their reality, I have it. They act upon it, or blame their actions or unhappinesses on me, because they really believe I'm capable of making them act outside themselves.

A few years ago I served on the RWA board, first as a director, then as PAN Liaison, and finally as President, giving more than eight years of my life to volunteer service. In the end, I was accused of manipulating my board and still, years later, I ask myself, to what gain? What was I hoping to achieve by this negative action? A coup? When I was out of office anyway due to term limits? And a coup for what? Was this going to help my career? Get me financial gain? Gain me friends? What evil could I possibly have been concocting? And why? I'd given eight years to an organization I believed in - to a group I loved. A group I still love and support. This past summer, when I attended the national conference, there was much healing, much support as people came out of the woodwork to greet the 'new' me, to share and be open and thank me for my service. Of course, I realize, that I was the one who finally came out. And just this past week I received a birthday card from one of my former board members.

I used to fear having legal action taken against me. It was an irrational, without basis fear that would keep me awake at night. Attached to the fear was the knowledge that to be in trouble with the law meant that I would lose my freedom. Today, I don't carry that same fear. Today I see differently. Today, while I do not intend to break the law and do not ever want to be accused of doing so, I do long for my day in court. Because for every legal action taken, we, as US citizens have the right to rebuttal, to a hearing, no matter how heinous the crime. Rather than a taking away of freedom, as I once perceived this to be, I now see it as a chance to be heard, to stand up and tell the 'judge' what really happened, to speak my mind honestly and freely. To be heard.

I received a letter yesterday that will be with me for the rest of my life. It is hanging on my bulltein board here next to me as I write this. It shows me, more clearly than any of the research I've done in the past two years - in a lifetime of living - the dangerous power inherent in manipulation. For the manipulated, there is no day in court. There is no chance to speak a mind freely as the mind isn't free. The manipulated dispel cruelty in the name of good. Of health. Of right. And they don't even know, most of the time, that they are doing so. They're pulled and pushed, often by various sources, and told things so many times they don't have much hope of ever knowing what thoughts are their own and what ones are placed there by others.

But there IS hope. This I've learned, just as clearly as I've learned about the dark side of the mind. Because there is a power that is stronger than even the most intelligent, diabolical, capable mind. That power comes in many names that all embody the same unending entity - spirit, love, heart. The one thing I taught my daughter as I was raising her was to listen to her heart. To do, not what I told her to do, but what her heart told her to do. I always expected her to listen to me in case I had something to give to her that could help her - and then she was to go inside herself and find her own answers. I promised her that if she did so, she would always have my support, no matter what choices those answers prompted in her life. And she does.

And this is how I've finally learned to live my life. After years of living under control, of being afraid of not being enough, I have found my heart. I've learned how to listen to its call - no matter how difficult. And while there are hard days, while there is sometimes pain that seems too much to bear, there is also an inner peace that is a very dear and cherished companion. I have many regrets in my lifetime, but I do not regret - at all - where I find myself today, nor, when I look back, do I regret any of the actions I've taken when I've listened to my heart. The mistakes have come when I've listened to my head.

I've recently broadened my life - re-establishing life long relationships that I'd allowed to slip over the years, and strengthening those that were already established. And without fail, from work associates to aunts and cousins, from life long family friends to my blog sisters, even from my childhood friend, my sister in law, and my mother who has become closer to me than we've been in my adult lifetime, I have heard one thing over and over and over again. The change in me is remarkable. I am happy. There is no tension. There is pain, confusion, misunderstanding - life always brings some of that - but today I walk with a peace that lives from the inside out.

Here is the time, and the place, to speak from the heart. To search your own mind, privately or sharing with the rest of us, to find your own inner power, your own inner peace. To take back control of whatever thoughts others have stolen away and changed to fit their purposes. Now is the time to sit quietly, to listen to your heart, and to know that whatever you find there is accepted and okay, to know that if you live from that place you will be as happy as it's possible to be while walking on this earth.

Now is the time.

My Stomach and I Apologize! (Suzanne Forster)

I got bitten by a bug last night—all night. It’s now 8:04 a.m., PST, and my stomach is still making noises no internal organ should ever make, which is why my post on conspiracy theories won’t be making an appearance until next week. I should probably add that these are deeply personal conspiracy theories. Nothing to do with JFK, the Apollo Moon Landing or Anna Nicole Smith.

Okay, next week. Same time. Same station. Hope to see ya here.

Suz

So it goes

My last remaining uncle died last night, and now I have one lovely, frail, elderly aunt left. Uncle Paul was an art historian, a college professor (with all the good and bad that entails), someone bright, capable of great charm, father of three wonderful children, including my beloved cousin Jody. He lived a long, good life (Uncle Paul did -- Jody died young). He was 90, had been a tennis and squash champion most of his life, and he tolerated the crazy Stuart family very well indeed (his widow, Aunt Ailie, is my father's sister).
But as we, the sandwich generation, age, we're losing the older ones and suddenly becoming the senior generation. I don't feel that old at age 59 (and besides, my 93 year old mother is still going strong and living on her own) but it's strange to watch that generation, the one that fought WWII (Uncle Paul was in the Navy) disappear. To look at my cousins and suddenly see their parents.
And all the while still dealing with semi-grown children and the pain of learning what life is like.

It's a strange life we baby boomers live. Knowing that the others will go -- my mother-in-law has advanced dementia and has been living in a nursing home for five years, slowly but determinedly going through any money that's left. My mother's hale and hearty, but I know that can't last forever, and Aunt Ailie is lovely but frail.

I feel like Keanu Reeves in Speed --- "we're all gonna die."

I think Judith Viorst wrote a book called NECESSARY LOSSES, which probably addresses just this sort of thing. We lost our parents, we lose our children as they grow up and move out on their own, we lose our youth but gain wisdom (please God) and we lose friends for a myriad of reasons.

And I think, instead of chasing after my elusive deadline like a madwoman, which I've been doing ever since I got home from New Zealand and Australia, I'm going to take the day off to reflect and make peace with the various passages life puts us through.

And say a short, sweet goodbye to Uncle Paul.

Sunday Cat Blogging

Hey! What's that beeping sound? I was sleeping!!



This racket has been going on since 2004. That's half my life. Do you know how long that is in cat years?!

OF BOOKS AND READERS (Patricia Potter)

OF BOOKS AND READERS . . . AND PERCEPTIONS



Suzanne’s blog on romance novels several days ago came at a time I was preparing for today’s (Saturday) Book Club Day at our local library’s Main Branch.

The Memphis Library last year started a Book Club Day. Literary luminaries are invited as keynote and luncheon speakers. Other writers hold special interest sessions.

Approximately 250 representatives of book clubs throughout the greater Memphis area are invited. Then they take books, experiences, etc. back to their clubs. The audience is certainly varied. All colors and all ages. All eager readers.

As the Romance representative, I facilitated a conference call interview with Jayne Ann Krentz last year and will do the same today with Julie Garwood.

Since the room is small and seating limited, tickets to the session are selected by chance. Last year the number of participants were limited to thirty-five and the demand was far greater than that. Many were disappointed. Attendees clutched their tickets eagerly.

They are representative of the reading public. But what I found interesting last year was the clamor for tickets for the romance session. Of course, Jayne Ann Krentz was a great draw and for an hour she was a wonderful guest. I had brought a list of prepared questions in case the attendees were seized with shyness. Didn’t happen. Didn’t have to use one question. The enthusiasm and interest was bubbling.

The librarian later told me that the romance session received the best response in critique sheets. She also told me that I sold more books than any other attending author, including the literary luminaries. I would like to think it was because I was brilliant. In truth, I think it was because of a decided bent toward romance.

It reminded me of a literary conference to which I was invited years ago. It was held at a major university and I was obviously the token romance author. At a welcoming reception for authors, I was shunned. The moment I mentioned romance, heads turned to the person on the other side. If not for an old friend from the Atlanta Journal (cookbook author), I would have been completely ostracized. But to the organizers’ shock, my session was the most heavily attended.

The head of the program – a writing professor at the university – drew me aside to ask me how much I made on a book. It was the only time he spoke to me. I just winked at him and hoped he imagined a million dollars.

But the greatest satisfaction came when I sat on a panel with a group of literary agents, editors and writers. An innocent attendee asked the agents if they represented science fiction.

All of them said no, and one said arrogantly he did not represent popular fiction. He just represented books that “stayed on the shelf.”

I loved that. Absolutely loved it. As the microphone headed toward me, I commented that I was ever so happy to be in a genre where books flew off the shelf and didn’t stay there.

When I left, I thought about the organizers and panelists who were openly hostile to mass market fiction/ popular fiction/ genre fiction. Whichever words you wish to use, the terms all reflect the fact that they are the books most read by the public. I was amazed at difference between the organizers of the conference and the writers who attended. The latter actually wanted to write books people read. The former were horrified by the idea.

So in preparation for my session tomorrow, I trotted out industry statistics about romance. They are generally accepted by publishing sources as accurate. To me they are astounding, considering the stigma that still lingers. But here they are for ammunition: some 54.9 percent of all paperback sales are romance fiction. Nearly forty percent (39.3) of ALL fiction sold is romance.

Romance claims the largest share of the pie compared to other genres. Compared to the near forty percent of romance, thirty percent is mystery/thriller, 12.9 percent general fiction, 6.4 percent science fiction and ll.8 percent other fiction sales.

Suzanne’s post also came during a discussion on a link about a recent article stating that people are reading less. Much less. I think it said some twenty-five percent of our American population didn’t read even one book during a year.

So I would think the writing professors and “literary” folks would appreciate any genre that draws people to reading. Just as I say thanks be to JK Rowling and Harry Potter every night of my life.

'Nuff Is E'nuff! (LynnK)

As so many important things do, it all started with the cats.

I wasn’t living in Coronado then, although I’d set up my P.O. Box here. Wishful thinking, perhaps, or a hint to the Divine. Anyway, no one could miss the derelict building hunkered down on a large piece of land across the street from the post office. A flophouse, in a community where tiny homes on postage-stamp-sized lots start at a million dollars.

You couldn’t miss the motorcycles, either, or the yelling, or the trash piled up in the yard, or the cats neatly grooming themselves on the window sills. But (I am told), an alcohol-afflicted absentee owner couldn’t care less about his property, and the town officials took no action. Not for years. But the same week I moved into the apartment complex next door to the flophouse, the troubled tenants were finally evicted. And while scrambling for a new place to settle, they left their cats behind.

One former resident, a gentle Viet Nam veteran still struggling with post-traumatic stress and the bottle, came back every day to feed the cats. When he found a place to live, he said, he’d take them there. I supplied him with cat food so he wouldn’t have buy it. After a few months, the cats were gone and so was he. I’ve no idea what happened to any of them. But I have become way too involved in their former residence.

The blighted flophouse sat deserted atop its multi-million-dollar plot of land for another couple of years. Plenty of people wanted to raze it and build a mansion or some condos. But turns out that the flophouse was constructed in 1906, which made it, in the eyes of some, an "historic" building. Around here, 1906 is nearly as historic as it gets.

Eventually, three local couples with a plan and come money bought the property, vowing to preserve and restore the building, transforming it into a posh bed-and breakfast. That’s when my own nightmare (and that of all my neighbors) began.

Living in a construction zone is never fun, but what can you do? We entered 2004 in a state of weary resignation as the demolition of non-historic add-ons began. Bang! Thump! Crash! Dust flew. Dirt and wood splinters settled over cars and lawns. Trucks rumbled in to haul stuff away.
It will soon be over, we told ourselves.

Then, long months of silence while the new owners drew up plans and got them approved. To accommodate an underground parking lot, the historic structure was to be lifted. And they’d add a two-story building that would look like individual bungalows. Narrow the street. Build a driveway. Go to Mars.

OK, they’re not going to Mars. We’re just wishing they would. Digging soon began under the house, and from that time on, none of us ever had a clean car. I could (and still can) look out my front window and see clouds of dirt billowing down the street. With windows open to catch summer breezes, I have to dust furniture a couple times a day.

And the noise! Work can’t technically start until after 7am, but the trucks show up well before that. Rattle! Clank! Squawk! Cement trucks are the worst. And all of them have that Backing-Up Beeper that is, I am sure, the most irritating noise on the planet. No matter what time I get to bed—I have always been a night-writer—I’m beeped awake by 7:15am. From them on, it’s clatter and hammer and grind and beep.

In late 2006, after months of preparation, they did in fact raise the building six inches. The picture shows them doing it. And except for some more digging and prep work for adding the bungalows, everything looks pretty much the same today. The noise continues unabated.

A few weeks ago, my weary resignation ran its course. Now I’m just plain cranky. In part that’s due to years of sleep-deprivation. But it’s mostly because of a newspaper article about the restoration of the building, which outlined the owners’ plans to lavish their friends with a free stay in champagne-drenched luxury when the B&B first opens next year. A celebration! Yay!

But what about their long-suffering neighbors, the ones who have endured the noise and the dirt and the lack of parking (construction workers grab up lots of spaces) since 2004?! No invitation to a luxurious night on the house for us? No champagne? Not even a free car wash?

So I’m having dark, evil fantasies. It’s 2007, and the B&B is officially launched. It’s 6:59am. The owners and their guest-friends are sleeping off a night of revelry. I pull up to the 1906 Lodge in a truck with a rumbling engine, squeaky brakes, and a really, really loud back-up beeper. And for the rest of the morning, I rumble and squeak and back up and beep.

Aw, who am I kidding? Renting a truck would be expensive. Besides, I can’t drive a truck.

But I could rent a leaf-blower . . .

My Trip to NC, Day One (Maggie)

Before I begin, let me just remind you that MOON FEVER goes on sale momentarily. Watch for it! And now, the trip report!


My trip to North Carolina began in an ordinary way. I packed my bags, and then my dogs, and headed out to deliver them to their respective dog-sitters. Wrinkles sat in the passenger seat, looking extremely pleased to be there. Sally had the entire back of the SUV to herself. Sally, being a great Dane and roughly the size of a pony, needs the entire back to herself. And so we were off, right on time. The plan was, drop the dogs, then head to Binghamton where I would pick up my fourthborn, Stacie, at her place, and then on South.

That was before I heard the noise, of course.

It was as I hit the brakes to pull into daughter #1’s driveway, where Sally was to be a weekend guest. When I stepped on the brakes there was a terrible growling sound. Not encouraging. And I thought, gee, it sounds like the brakes might be going bad. Which made me think of getting the car serviced, which made me glance at the little sticker telling you when the oil should be changed, which made me wince. About 100 miles ago, apparently.

I took Sally into her appointed quarters at Jena’s place, gave her food and water and hugged her goodbye. Jena wasn’t home. Then I drove to daughter #2’s place. Katie and my son in law Tony, who’d volunteered to take Wrinkles weren’t home either, but the kids and the sitter were there. I carried Wrinkles into the house, because you can’t get her to walk unless she wants to, and she really preferred to stay in the car. We blocked her into a nifty little room, and I put down her very favorite blanket, gave her food and water and eye drops, hugged Ella and Tanner and Gracie. Ella and I discussed Wrinkles' care. She’s so smart I have no doubt she’ll be in charge. And then I got back into the car, and drove and hit the brakes and heard the noise. It sounded really bad.

I had options. Drive anyway. 658 miles with growly brakes didn’t seem the smartest move, though. Go to the dealer. An hour in the opposite direction from where I had to go, and have them tell me they couldn’t help me without an appointment anyway. Or head to my favorite auto mechanic, the one I trust most in the world, which was sort of on my way toward Binghamton anyway. He, too, likes appointments. But he also likes me, and he’s never let me down yet. (And as I think back over the years, it seems I’ve come to him several times with emergency-I’m-leaving-on-a-trip-tomorrow situations. Never a help-I’m-leaving-on-a-trip-right-now situation, though. Until now.)


As I expected Guy, of Guy’s Auto in Plymouth NY, got me right in. He called for the parts needed. They’ll be here in an hour. Upon inspecting the brakes, his always wise verdict was that it was a damn good thing I came in. Oh, and he’s going to change the oil while he’s at it. All for probably a tenth of what it would have cost me on the road, and half what it would have at the dealership.

So that’s leg one of the journey. A couple of pleasant hours spent at a neat garage with people I like, and extra time to blog and even write a few pages on the novella. I phoned Stacie, told her we’d be leaving just a couple of hours later than planned. She’s calling Lisa, daughter #5, to let her know we’ll be arriving at her place later than expected. And all is well with the world.

Really, this didn’t even faze me. Not a ripple. When life is good and your attitude tuned up and you’re happy, little bumps in the road don’t have any real impact, do they? In fact, I’m grateful for that growling noise. It probably saved me a lot of aggravation, or possibly something far worse.

Part two of the journey, next week!

Maggie

Building Bridges and Other Things (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I'm writing to you from the table in my motor home - looking out over a vast expanse of undeveloped desert in southern Arizona, just north of the Mexican border. We're on our honeymoon - a trip to deliver my mother home because family matters most - and now we have five glorious days just Tim and I in our own little world. We found this RV campsite on the internet. It sounded great because it was up front about being in the middle of nowhere. There's not even a store to buy water which could be quite a concern as it's about 110 degrees outside. The only thing the internet failed to say was that during the summer months, this wonderful little campground with swimming pool and other amenities is completely deserted. Rows and rows of empty slots appear before me - and then the desert beyond. No one else sees the beauty of being in a motor home in the middle of the desert in the middle of the summer, I guess. It's kind of eerie. And quite exquisite, too. Being out here breaks you out of preconceived expectations and societal boundaries and lets you see and be exactly who you are. I'm liking what I see. Both inside me and inside the man I'm spending the rest of my life with.

Today we're going to Mexico. I'm prepared for the poverty I'll find there. Prepared to keep myself safe. Prepared to find a beautiful handmade lace runner for the mantle on the fireplace in my 'new' old Victorian cottage. And I know that before this day is done I'm going to be struck with the injustices and struggles that this world brings to so many of us. It hits me every time I go to Mexico. Children so young, and yet, in some senses, older than I'll ever be in this lifetime. And I wonder what I can do to bridge the differences between us. Hand out $20 bills? I'm happy to do so. Need to do so. But will it help?

Do I steal a child across the border - as if I could - and...then what? Tell him not to cry for the family he left behind? Promise him a better life? What's better - money, opportunity - or living your life with those you love?

Today is my birthday. There are calls I won't receive. And calls I have already received. I woke up in the middle of the night last night thinking about the calls I won't receive. And before I was out of bed this morning, the phone was ringing with a birthday song wake up call from someone I love very much. A person who has been in my life for all of her life and a good part of mine. A relationship I've built - and she's built - since we were children. She's never called me on my birthday before. But she knew what today would bring. And what it wouldn't. She knew there would be holes to fill and before I was even out of bed, she'd filled them. How can I feel as though I've failed in matters of the heart when a heart reaches out to me just because...well, because.

It's barely ten o'clock here and already it's been a great day. I've been spoiled and pampered and made to relax. I've been gifted and fed and smiled at in such a way that I can't help but know how very very lucky I am. My days are lit by magic and my nights filled with songs that somehow manage to drown out the nightmares.

And my life is building itself around me in spite of myself. I have Christmas plans. Yeah! Life feels complete with Christmas plans. And I'm finding all kinds of gifts within myself that I didn't know were there. I can build things.

Literally.

Last week I put a roof on a barn. I mean, I climbed up there, stood on the angled surface looking down at the ground below and imagined myself sliding down there. I ended up dead most times, but it those times that I ended up crippled that really stifled my breathing. And while I was busy in my head, my hands were laying tar paper. Pounding in nails. Pounding my thumb a time or two and I still have the blood blister to prove it. Next came the shingles. I didn't carry them up, but I did unbox them, piece by piece. I laid them, measured, adjusted, and hammered, starting at the edge of the roof and working my way up to the point then down to the edge of the other side, up to the crest where I had to put a cap on all the way across. Now I have to admit, I didn't do this all by myself. I had a master up on that roof with me, patiently showing me the way, waiting while I made my way. He made me take as many rows as he did, and when he got ahead of me, found things to do to keep himself occupied until I caught up. At the crest he cut shingles while hammered almost all of them. I built a roof.

And if I can do that - I can do just about anything. I have many challenges before me. And today, hammer in hand, I am facing them. Today, I am celebrating.

And tomorrow (well next month when we close on the new house) I will learn framing. The house needs a bathroom on the second floor and I want the washer and dryer upstairs so I can do laundry while I'm working. It'll take a weekend, I'm told. I think it might be a little longer than that with me doing some of the work, but you never know. I might surprise myself again. And really, I want to finish that project quickly because the next one is another roof - this time on the private patio that looks out over the woods in the back of the house. As soon as that roof is on, I get a jacuzzi out there. And the cold weather is coming...

Or so I'm told.

In Defense of Romance Reading (Suzanne Forster)

I can’t remember now what triggered the topic for this blog, but it may not even matter because defending romance reading—and popular fiction in general—feels as if it’s become a second calling over the years. I know many of us who read and/or write romance, or almost anything related to the genre, feel that way. I love all kinds of books, fiction and nonfiction, serious and popular, but the only reading I’ve felt continuously compelled to explain and defend is the latter.

I’m at the point of wondering why I should even need to defend it, which in a perfect world, is exactly what I’d like to say to its critics. “I don’t feel the need to defend what I read. Why do you feel the need to criticize it? And, more importantly, have you ever read it yourself?”

I wonder where the discussion would go from there. Probably not very far.

Thinking back, I believe the most recent occasion to climb on the romance reading soapbox was the result of a post by a Yahoo group member who talked about remarks from friends. She reads across the board, enjoying a wide variety of books that include romance, and I loved her answer. “I tend to toy with my friends who claim to disdain romance. They always admit that being in love is the best. And when you point out that romance novelists get paid to write about that, they want to be romance novelists.”

Maybe you have to be a romance novelist to appreciate the beauty of that remark. I tried paraphrasing it, but something was lost. Hope I don’t get her in trouble with her friends.

Another member who’s a medieval scholar talked about how she made use of her education when confronted with someone who trashed genre fiction. She said she had great fun using every bit of literary jargon at her command—and with a straight face. She talked about the philosophy of the genres and their history and the tradition of romance in medieval times. And this was before she’d ever read a romance.

I wish I’d been there. In fact, I told both women I would love to have had them with me when people were being insulting, often unknowingly, about romance novels. Many years ago my husband and I had friends over for dinner, a man who worked with Allan, and the man’s wife. I had only been published a short time, and I was writing Silhouette Desires. They'd just arrived and we were greeting each other, and the man said to me, Suzanne, are you still writing those smutty books? He grinned, thinking that was a great joke, and I really believe he had no idea that it was anything but a great joke. I don't think he meant any harm, but I’d never been confronted like that before, especially by friends, and I had no idea what to say. I laughed along with him and said that yes, I was still writing those smutty books.

I thought that would be the end of it, but Allan took exception to the remark, and with great seriousness, said Suzanne doesn't write smutty books. She writes about true love. Those were his exact words, and he went on to say that the books were about courtship, romantic attraction and emotional commitment between two people. I wasn’t the only one speechless at that point. His friend didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, his wife managed a swift apology. I’m a little fuzzy on what happened after that, but I've never forgotten the incident. I'm not sure I could get away with what Allan did, considering the tone and the gravity in his voice, but no one questioned him, I can tell you that.

It’s occurred to me now, twenty years later, that if I’d really wanted to put him on the spot, I could have said “I write about people falling in love, which is not how I would define smut. How would you define smut?” I’d love to have heard his answer.

I’m always curious how others defend their reading tastes, especially when its romance, so I googled “defending romance reading” and found the mother lode. I loved Nora Roberts’ response to a recent column in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that suggested romance reading could be dangerous to the point of making women delusional.

“Jeez, I’ve been sending a `distorted message’ to women for years by writing about relationships and commitment, about overcoming obstacles and celebrating the discovery and value of love. Thank God somebody clued me in! And all this time I thought the message was love is a vital part of the human condition. Millions of women—who are, of course, irrational, weak-minded and unhappy—have become dangerously unbalanced. Marriages destroyed as they toss aside their husbands in search of fictional characters.

What utter crap.

Neither am I writing female porn. Since when is a novel highlighting two people falling in love, and enjoying each other sexually, pornography?

Oddly, I expect my readers to know the difference between reality and fiction, between pornography and sexuality—whatever their gender.”

We can all appreciate the beauty of this one, yes?

I also found some impressive scholarly responses, including a piece on the salutary effects on younger readers of romance from Kristin Cockerel of the University of Louisville. Cockerel cites many sources, including Jane Radway’s largely positive ethnographic study of romance reading. But as deeply gratifying as it is to have the support of academics, those quotes that come straight from the heart of the reader really struck home with me. In every case, I couldn’t have said it better.

I’d love to hear about some of your experiences. Have you ever been put in the position of having to defend your reading tastes? After my foray on Google, I’m loaded for bear and waiting for the next opportunity. But I’m also thinking it might be fun to turn the tables and call upon the critics to defend their need to criticize. Hey, I’m just asking.

Suz

Australia, NZ and LA

We're back. Well, sort of. We're at a hotel in LA, waiting for our flights later this week and in the meantime we're touring Little Tokyo, getting into deep shit with our editors (at least, I am) and preparing to hide out tomorrow because our horoscopes say all hell is going to break loose.
But in the meantime, let me tell you the ten best things about Australia and New Zealand.
1. The people. Fabulous, warm, wonderful people. I want to move there.
2. The sun and the water in Australia, including the opera house, the sandy beaches, the warm breezes. Just amazing.
3. Shopping at the Harbourside and finding Asian style clothes that actually fit me.
4. Eating seafood and fish and chips.
5. Our elegant hotel rooms in Sydney
6. The warmth of the Kiwis.
7. The fabulous people of Harlequin Mills and Boon Australia, in particular the divine Stuart MacDonald. Here's a photo of the two Stuarts:
8. Koalas and Thorny Demons (the latter sound like hero material to me)
9. Spending time with Jenny Crusie
10. Coming back home to my family.

Number ten is always the best thing about any trip. Right now I'm so zonked out by jet lag that I can hardly breathe, but tomorrow, our day of retreat.
The rest of you -- watch out for falling rocks tomorrow. It's a good day to avoid all that trouble that's just waiting to pounce.
Because as Jenny says, nothing but good times ahead.

Heroes and Villains

From the American Film Institute, a list (the top ten) of the greatest movie heroes and villains. Female heroes: Two. Female vilains: Five. Hmph!


Heroes
1. Atticus Finch
To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Indiana Jones
Raiders of the Lost Ark
3. James Bond
Dr. No
4. Rick Blaine
Casablanca
5. Will Kane
High Noon
6. Clarice Starling
The Silence of the Lambs
7. Rocky Balboa
Rocky
8. Ellen Ripley
Aliens
9. George Bailey
It's a Wonderful Life
10.T. E. Lawrence
Lawrence of Arabia







Villains
1. Dr. Hannibal Lecter
The Silence of the Lambs
2. Norman Bates
Psycho
3. Darth Vader
The Empire Strikes Back
4. The Wicked Witch of the West
The Wizard of Oz
5. Nurse Ratched
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
>
6. Mr. Potter
It's a Wonderful Life
7. Alex Forrest
Fatal Attraction
8. Phyllis Dietrichson
Double Indemnity
9. Regan MacNeil
The Exorcist
10.The Queen
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

Elvis . . . and me

For the past two weeks, I've been immersed in Elvis lore. Everything is Elvis.

My home is in Memphis and now, as everyone knows, Memphis is famous, foremost, as the home of Elvis Presley.

I first heard Elvis in Detroit when I was eleven. He was on the Ed Sullivan show and, wow, was he ever daring. Some good citizens wanted to ban him because he wriggled his hips. Perhaps because of that disapproval, I was glued to our black and white twelve-inch console TV. “Heartbreak Hotel” immediately became my favorite song.

We then moved to Alabama. My brother went to the University of Tennessee Medical School in Memphis, then did several years at Mayo Clinic in Minnesota before returning to Memphis. I went to the University of Alabama and then to Atlanta.

But I often visited him in Memphis. Bill lived near Graceland, and we would drive past when I visited. Memphis was Elvis’s playground, and there were always, always stories. Memphis was Elvis, and Elvis was Memphis.

Then my brother became one of Elvis’s doctors. Not the primary one, but in matters pulmonary. When Elvis had pneumonia, my brother was his physician. And he was impressed. Talked about how polite and friendly he was, and how cooperative.

When Elvis died, the entire city went into mourning.

I moved to Memphis about twelve years ago. It seemed everyone I met had an Elvis story. One writer friend was a distant cousin. Another had attended a wedding reception at Graceland. (The groom left the bride and sang with Elvis all night). Still another had met him in the Sheriff’s office when he was applying for a gun permit. Memphis was – and still is – a very small town when it comes to Elvis.

So . . . what’s the point to all this background?

Perhaps it’s my ongoing astonishment at the power and strength of Elvis, and no place else is it so obvious.

Twice a year tens of thousands of people visit Atlanta – and Graceland – to celebrate Elvis’s birthday. On August 15th even more visit to mourn his death. This week is the 30th Anniversary of his death.

More than 75,000 people from every state in this country and dozens of foreign countries descended on Memphis for the annual midnight vigil Wednesday. The temperature was 106 degrees – the warmest since I’ve lived here – with a heat index of 111. Fans waited in that heat for up to twenty-four hours in order to take their turn to file by Elvis’s grave, a candle in hand.

One person died. Others were taken to the hospital, and still all the remaining 75,000 stood in the hot sun, in unbelievably long lines to pay respects to the King. This thirty years after his death.

There are newspaper sections devoted to him, front page stories daily for two weeks, Elvis concerts, multiple Elvis imitator contests. Silly looking guys running around in white Elvis suits wherever you go.

The devotion never ceases to amaze me. Why not Frank Sinatra? The Beatles? Today’s stars? Why not so many other entertainers whose music crept into our hearts.

He was not a very good actor. He didn’t have the film vehicles to make him great. His manager didn’t want drama, although he did. Elvis wanted to grow, but his manager wanted fluff.

But he was a great entertainer. Some say maybe the greatest ever. My mom and dad went to one of his last concerts. They hadn’t intended to go. But Dad was at the box office of the concert hall in Huntsville when Elvis tickets went on sale. He was there to buy tickets for another event and, on the spur of the moment, decided to buy a couple for the Elvis concert.

Mom was a little dubious. They were in their sixties. Their music was Glenn Miller. It was one of Elvis’s last concerts, and he was over weight and tired and on prescription pills. It But once he started to sing, they were enthralled. They said it was the best concert they ever attended.

I wish I had been to one and felt that magic. I liked his music, particularly the ballads. But I never understood the fanaticism of his fans.

I resisted going to Graceland for a number of years. Too sophisticated for that, I told myself. Then some friends visited from Atlanta. They came specifically to go to Graceland. I reluctantly went. Like my folks, I surprised myself. I was fascinated. I was particularly interested in all the charitable endeavors he took care NOT to publicize. He gave away an amazing amount of his fortune. Quietly.

Is that why so many still revere this man? Because they still see a boy who loved gospel music better than any of the pop songs he made famous? Because he was someone who was deeply loyal to family and friends? Even to a manager who made him famous, then helped destroy him.

Or perhaps it is that we never knew exactly what he would have done if not for his premature death and a manager whose vision didn’t go beyond the dollar bill.

Or maybe people see the young man who, when drafted, happily went to serve his country when he could have easily avoided it, and the star who never forgot his roots.

Twice a year, every Memphian is seeped in Elvis lore. I still don’t quite understand it, but I’ve learned to appreciate it.

Graceland, anyone?

Law and Disorder (LynnK)

When called to the bar, I’m generally looking forward to a strawberry margarita. But for the last several days, all I got was Jury Duty.

Many were called, and too many were chosen. Including me. In the San Diego Superior Court, as much as possible is done to make the experience tolerable. Full credit to everyone involved. But I kept wishing that I was elsewhere.

For starters, I was amazed at the selection process, which took hours and hours. Several hundred potentials waited in the jury lounge, reading or doing puzzles, hoping never to hear their names. But on the fifth round of victim-selection, mine was intoned. Eventually forty-five rather breathless sheep were herded into a tiny courtroom at the farthest end of the building, which is nearly three blocks long. Two streets run under that building!

My first thought, as I walked in and saw the people standing by the tables and facing us, was that we'd come into the land of the baby lawyers. That augured well for a fairly minor trial (not minor for the accused, to be sure), and I didn’t expect it would last very long.

Anyway, it was my bad luck to draw one of the seats in the jury box itself, which meant I'd have to be "excused with the thanks of the court" to escape. The judge was tall and lean, with a neatly trimmed goatee-style beard, rather like one a Renaissance aristocrat might wear. He looked quite distinguished in his robe . . . except for a bilious green bow tie. A bow tie is never a good fashion choice, and had that one been any larger, he’d have been in clown territory.

We each had a copy of the jury questions to be answered. And damned if he wasn't going to make all 45 of us go through the process. Plus he asked for all sorts of clarifications. I'd been told by a friend, who had been told by a judge, that my Coronado residency would likely get me excluded by the defense. The perception is that we Coronadans are uptight law-'n'-order types. I had hopes of catching the next bus home.

There were a dozen or so questions, many related to association with law enforcement, the legal profession, etc. I (Juror #10) started through them, giving name, residence, profession (writer, self-employed), and got to the one about who lives in the household, their professions, etc.

I said, simply, "I live alone with a cat," and moved swiftly through the other stuff. At the end, already under oath, I swore that I could be impartial.

Then the judge said, "You have a cat? What kind of cat?"

Say what? He's asking me about my cat?

"Abyssinian," sez I. He writes it down.

"What's the cat's name?"

Good grief! "Lymond de Sevigny." Again, he writes. Probably writing "stupid-ass cat name."

And now I'm firmly established as the Crazy Cat Lady from Coronado.

"You said you are a writer. What do you write?"

Heeere we go. "Romance novels."

A palpable stir in the courtroom. I'd been looking over at the judge, but from the corner of my eye, I could see everyone regarding me intently. Make that the Crazy Cat Lady of Coronado who sits alone in her apartment hunt/pecking goopy stories on her antique Underwood.

You'd think all that would have served to get me sprung. But hours later, when 45 people had been questioned by the judge, and we'd been vaguely questioned (more speechifying than questions) by the baby lawyers (no questions addressed to me), the dismissals began. There were quite a few, most of them male, and when the dust settled, we were eleven females and one token Y chromosome.

I expect the Defense thought females would be more sympathetic to their client, a young, attractive woman accused of misdemeanor battery (one count) against her neatly attractive and cohabiting boyfriend, who stands eight inches taller than she. No injury to speak of. I figured this trial would be quickly done with.

Days later, we’d heard many hours of law-enforcement reports and conflicting he-said, she-said testimony. Utter calm and meticulous kindness from him. Tears and inconsistency from her. The cause of their fights was his obsession with an incident in her past involving rape, with perhaps some complicity on her part. Or none. That was never clear. The boyfriend said he accepted her story, except that he’d been told otherwise by someone who knew one of the guys involved. In real life, he kept questioning and punishing her.

Most of the testimony concerned three separate domestic violence incidents that involved law enforcement, two of them resulting in arrests (one for her, one for him). All involved alcohol. All were more dramatic than the one related to the charge at hand.

We looked at large pictures of barely visible injuries on the plaintiff’s back and neck and, directly after lunch, at a picture of his scrotum. A wrench had been thrown. A lamp had been tossed or "laid" under a table. Wildly different stories involved a golf club.

The prosecutor was quiet, precise, and thorough. The defense attorney paced and ranted and painted the accused as the victim in a melodramatic fashion that didn’t work for me.

At the end, confined in a small jury room, we meticulously reviewed the evidence, expressed our opinions, and made a chart related to the one count of battery in the charge. There was general agreement that the soft-spoken guy was a controlling, emotionally abusive jerk. No one liked him the least little bit. Naturally, we wondered why these two people had remained, for a year and a half, in a dysfunctional relationship punctuated by (admittedly mild) violence. The question of female on male violence came up once in the initial jury selection, but none of us batted an eyelash at that factor. Violence is violence, and if males are more prone to physical action (one word: testosterone), females don’t get a pass when they cut loose.

The verdict? Guilty as charged. I suspect that privately, most of us hoped the accused would
get some help and little or no jail time. Since I don’t intend to seek out the public records, I’ll never learn what the sentence was.

Some of the jurors and, later, other folks I’ve spoken to about the case have asked, "Are you going to use this in a book?" Nooooooo! (Shudder!)

During the trial, I probably absorbed a better understanding of human nature, especially the non-desirable elements and some of the dark vulnerabilities. But like most writers, I do that at 7-Eleven buying a Slurpee. It’s all grist for the mill, our life experiences. Happily, grist is indistinguishable. I can let those hapless, anonymous people get on with their lives.

As for my own stories, I’ll continue to create all-new people who choose not to spin in the endless dry-cycle of past experiences. No happy endings to be found there!

Weekend of Bliss (Maggie)

Guess how I spent the weekend? =)

If you guessed whitewater kayaking, you were right! Yes, my weekend plans worked out after all. Due to the dog issues (See last week's post) I had to shrink my weekend, which should have gone from Thursday to Monday, down to Friday through Sunday, but I still had a great time. My second born daughter Katie and her husband Tony took turns checking in on Wrinkles (my 14 year old English bulldog) for me, and administering her meds, since she stayed home alone. I put newspapers down and she did fine. My oldest daughter Jena, took Sally (10-year-old great Dane) for the weekend. So I was able to get away even though I hadn't yet found a kennel to board them.

So I arrived at Letchworth State Park, roughly 3 hours away from home, late afternoon Friday and spent the first hour alternating between getting the stuffing hugged out of me by friends I hadn't seen in a while, and setting up my campsite. I had bought a tent and sleeping bag and stuff at the last minute, and I have to say, I wasn't happy with either of them. The tent was too small and the sleeping bag nowhere near warm enough. I'll definitely get some higher quality gear before I head out again. At any rate, once my site was set up (with a number of good friends jumping right in to help) we had a group meal together, and spent a really special evening together. Saturday was even better. Group breakfast, lots of fun and discussion and workshops presented this year by the fabulous Edain McCoy. And then the great adventure. Edain joined a tiny group of bold adventurers for the whitewater kayaking trip. It lasted 3 hours and it was one of the best afternoons I've ever spent. We all got soaked, of course. In the picture are me, and two of the best friends ever, Nicole and Christine. We visited a waterfall. We stopped for kool-aid and cookies. We floated in nearly still waters, and then dodged rocks through the rapids. (And I'm sure what were rapids to me would be mud-puddles to an experienced kayak person!) We worked hard, and I felt like I was getting pretty good at maneuvering the little craft by the end of the day. Halfway through we were so overheated that during a break we all jumped in for a swim, though the guides wouldn't let us remove those unflattering life vests! (Since they fed us cookies, I forgave them.)

Saturday night was another round of fun, because that's when we gathered around a bonfire and broke out the drums. I counted 13 djembes this year, and we play together as if we've been doing it for years. Oh, wait, that's because we have. =) There were tambourines and rattles and digeridoos too. Women danced around the fire in time with the primal rhythms. I joined them whenever my hands needed a break from the drum.

This annual retreat is always a spiritual renewal for me. I came home so in love with being outdoors I didn't want to come inside. It's a reconnection with nature, and with magick and with people of like mind and with my inner Goddess. Letchworth State Park (Castile NY) is the most perfect setting I could imagine. It's been called the Grand Canyon of the East, and for good reason.

At any rate, I had a blast, and returned home refreshed and renewed and wonderful.

This weekend, Friday in fact, I'm leaving for a road trip to North Carolina to visit my youngest, Lisa and her new hubby Steve. Fourthborn Stacie is coming with me. I'm sure it'll be another great adventure as we're driving down. I've found a great kennel for the dogs, but since this was short notice, they had no room this weekend. I booked them for later in the month when I'll be at Dragon Con in Atlanta, and will again in September when I have a weekend in Arizona. For this weekend, I'll impose on my kids again. My son in law, Tony, has offered to take Wrinkles to his place and I'm going to take him up on it this time. And Jena will take Sally again. And from here on, I'll be working with a kennel.

Wrinkles, by the way, is doing great. She's feeling great, smiling again, frisky and upbeat. I'm so glad. Her meds will be finished by the time I leave tomorrow, except for the eyedrops which she needs for life. Really, right now, all is well with the world.

It's amazing what a great weekend spent out in nature can do for you.

Until next time!
Maggie

Life's Recent Gifts (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I sit here this morning feeling so blessed. You asked for pictures from my recent wedding and boy do I have pictures. 1300 of them. I won't ask you to look at all of them, but I want to share a few of them with you! I've looked at them so many times over the past week and always with a resurgence of the magic that surrounds my life. I cannot believe, even now, that it is possible to share a life like this on this earth. My husband is not a perfect man. I am not a perfect woman. And yet we fit. We've both loved before. We've both made mistakes. We've both been hurt beyond what we thought we could endure. And here we are:

Getting it right. Sealing a lifetime. Finally.

Life is happy from the inside out. Life delivers everything it promises. And when life is hard, as it often is, and is for us in particular due to the complicated circumstances bred by the choices we've made during our time apart, there is still Tim. Still holding on to me. Watching out for me. As I watch out for him. I might keep to myself a lot. I might avoid phone calls because they make me uncomfortable. But for this man I will walk into the thick of the fire and burn with him until I can pull him out. As he does for me. This is life's greatest recent gift to me.

And another gift - We just bought a house!!!! We have a home of our own and what a home. It's my little girl storybook dream house. Set up on a hill, on almost two acres of beautifully landscaped grounds and woods, is our little, 1940's Victorian cottage. The living room is huge, solid wood floors, a stone fireplace that encompasses the entire room, and two walls of solid windows overlooking the grounds, front and back. The kitchen was recently modernized and has white, cottage cupboards as well as all of today's conveniences. And behind the kitchen, complete with a wet bar is the sun room I've been wanting since I was a little girl napping on my grandmother's screened in porch. My office is upstairs - the length of half the house, decorated with roses on the walls, a turret with cubbies and wood floors and windows that look out over the yard.

But the best part of this story is my new love's reaction to the whole process. He'd been after me to look at houses all summer, but I'd warned him. When I go to buy a house I look at the Multiple Listing Service myself. I choose five or so homes. Call a realtor. Choose a house and purchase it. I don't think he quite believed me. But he went along for the ride. Eager to get started on the onerous process of finding just the right place. Prepared to walk through and evaluate a million of them, or at least twenty-five, before making any kind of decision. Two days later he was saying to my mother who was staying with us: "My wife buys houses quicker than I buy a pair of pants." He was laughing. And so did she. But I did buy a house faster than he buys slacks. Literally. (I've been with this man to buy a pair of pants.) Our cottage was the fifth of my five choices that one evening we went out. The minute we walked in I knew it was The place. And Tim did, too. The crowning moment was when, after we'd been there an hour, mentally moving in, we were standing together in the foyer, looking at the grand living room, both silent, and turned to each other. I said, "The Christmas tree" and he nodded and pointed as I finished, "will look great there." He was pointing to where I'd been going to point if he hadn't done it for me. He'd been thinking about the tree, too. And neither of had mentioned Christmas in that house. I wasn't surprised, though. That's how we work.

Another gift - as if I needed anymore - was the phone call from my editor this past week. We've been talking for several weeks about possible projects and it is now official. I just contracted a total of SIX more books. Five on a Harlequin contract, and another thriller/suspense with MIRA. And one of the five is the story of Tim and I. We're bringing back Shelter Valley as I announced earlier. And first, I'll be writing Ryan's story - the sequel to my July release, Sara's Son. The contract couldn't have come at a better time, giving us a nice blessing on our future plans.

And, oh, just one more wedding picture. My absolute favorite, (other than all the ones of my beloved and I of course!). My family has been incredible to me during this sometimes incredibly difficult transition in my life and they, aside from Tim, are my deepest and best blessing (and this includes my daughter.) I'd love to show you all of them, to show you the hundreds of pictures the photographer took of my nieces and cousins and new step-daughters (both of whom are beautiful, one with a killer smile and the other who has a particular affinity with cameras!). And the ones of my mother and brother and sister-in-law and aunt. But I had to choose only one and so this had to be it. This is my most precious little Bubby, the heart of my heart, the little guy who has been a blessing since the moment he was conceived. He is my special love, and you can see here, that the feeling is mutual. That's what I love about this picture. The love. So I leave you with Bubby (wearing his Aunt Tia's garter on his head) in a moment I will never forget...

Life After My First High School Reunion (Suzanne Forster)

First lesson learned: Five days aren’t enough to fly back to your home town and clean a three-bedroom place in preparation for a houseful of reunion company. Plus, whip up all the food and drink.

Next time, hire a cleaning service! Maybe even a caterer, although my puritan upbringing might not let me go that far.

By the time I’d finished cleaning the condo where I stay when I’m up in Olympia, Washington, my home town, I’d peeled the skin off two knuckles with a pumice stone, messed up my back, annoyed my knee, and thoroughly exhausted myself. Pumice stones are used for latrine duty, in case you’re lucky enough not to know, and if a stone doesn’t work on those impossible-to-clean toilet rings, then break out the CLR, which comes in a big jug and can probably be bought at most hardware stores. But be careful. This stuff is capable of peeling the skin off hands and arms up to elbows.

Second lesson learned: When the instructions on the container say wear rubber gloves, wear them! A rubber suit would not be overkill.

The real problem was that I hadn’t been to Olympia in nine months, and the last well-meaning relatives who’d stayed at the condo hadn’t thought to spruce up the place or even change the sheets. Sweep the decks? Wash windows? Perish the thought.

So, I was pretty pooped by the time my company got there, which turned out not to be a houseful after all, but one very dear friend who I hadn’t seen since her wedding (at which I was a very goofy looking bride’s maid, and she had the pictures to prove it. I’m still trying to find it in my heart to forgive her).

But Judy and I had a fabulous time catching up in preparation for the reunion. She brought pictures that went all the way back to kindergarten, where we met and became fast friends. I truly loved the adventurous, sometimes bold little girl with the beaming, angelic face, and now I love the woman with the vibrant red hair and vivid green eyes. She was a blond when we were kids. Those of us in her circle of friends probably should have known there was a fiery redhead hidden within.

Judy’s recall of our childhood was better than mine, but the pictures helped, and we were in bliss reminiscing about the old days and trying to figure out what had happened to our good buddies from Garfield grade school. The interesting thing about this reunion was that the one hundred plus participants tended to hang out with their grade school friends, and we even had our pictures taken in groups, organized by grade schools. Maybe that’s typical. This was my first reunion ever, and I was pleasantly surprised.

Garfield won for the most students at the reunion, I’m happy to say. And Judy and I were reunited with almost every single one of our best buddies. One had come all the way from a Washington, D.C. Another from Paris, France. It was more fun than I could possibly recount and more rewarding than I ever could have imagined. I’ve heard many horror stories about high school reunions, and I’d prepared myself, just in case, but I wasn’t aware of any disasters the entire weekend, and I really think the grade school connections were what made it so special, at least for some of us.

The reunion events started on a Friday night, where several of us met at a drive-in where we used to hang out. From there, we all “cruised” across town, many in classic, souped-up cars, to the beautiful hall where that night’s reception was held. The turn-out was terrific, and it was fun watching people peer at each other’s chests, trying to read badges rather than scrutinize faces that may have changed dramatically over four decades time. There were various lunches the following day, and that night we gathered at a country club for a banquet and a program that transported everyone back in time, whether we wanted to go there or not. Some of the inside jokes were borderline rude, but very funny.

I could tell you some great stories, but you wouldn’t know the people, and I’d almost certainly be violating someone’s privacy. Plus, for me, the real insights were triggered by an incident that happened at the very end of the banquet.

Some of us had congregated at a table and were poring over grade school pictures when a woman we didn’t immediately recognize came over and complimented us on how great we all looked. We returned the compliment, telling her she looked wonderful. Teary-eyed, she confessed that she’d felt ugly, awkward, and out of place in high school. A moment of silence passed before we all spoke up at once. To a woman, we confessed that we’d felt ugly, awkward, and out of place, too.

It was almost comical as we gaped at the each other in disbelief. You? Not you! You’re beautiful! None of us could imagine that anyone else could possibly have felt that way. Each of us privately thought that she was the only dork, that everyone else was beautiful, confident, and graceful. I was astounded that Judy, one of the cutest girls in our class, could have felt ugly or awkward. She couldn’t imagine how I could have felt that way. But I had proof, her damn wedding pictures, lol.

The true confessions went on for another hour or so, and then we all made plans to have dinner the following week, to keep the flow going. It was actually a healing experience. And fun at the same time. We laughed and laughed, but I know we were all very touched to have waited all our lives and perhaps only really seen each other for the first time.

Third lesson learned: Don’t wait as long as I did to go to a reunion! You’ll meet friends you didn’t know you had and see them as you never have before. Be willing to take a risk and share yourself and you may open some closed doors. Most of us had been living secret lives in high school and before, afraid to admit our self-doubts and inadequacies, probably because we feared being ostracized. Forty years later, those doubts and inadequacies were what bonded us. And what a sweet surprise that was.

Suz

Down Under

So this is the view from my hotel window in Sydney, Australia. Jenny Crusie and I are having an absolutely fabulous time, being treated like queens. I got to ride on a ferry and see the opera house while Poor Jenny worked, but now I think I know where I want to move to.

The Harlequin people are fabulous here --- they threw a Venetian masquerade with people dressed to the nines.

Everyone was quite glorious, and Sister Krissie was in her prime. I had a funky picture of Jenny but I promised not to post it and she'd smother me in my sleep if I did.

We saw koala bears and wallabys and the most amazing butterflies, then flew off to Brisbane this evening for an academic interlude (which I will try to behave at -- since I come from academia I tend to be a bit jaundiced). Then on to New Zealand for the NZ Romance Writers Conference, and eventually home.

In the meantime, I'm having a wonderful time, I adore the people here, and I don't miss anyone at all.

Any of you ever been to Australia and New Zealand? Any of you dying to go?

The Well of Imagination

Writers are observers. Or perhaps absorbers. Small moments, fleeting images, subtle gestures, seep into the bloodstream and pool in the well of imagination. And when we unknowingly summon them, they rise up and form themselves into words.

Susan Kelly-DeWitt captures the experience here, and the writer-fear lurking at the bottom of that well:

Maybe I Have No Ideas

Eating a turkey sub from the school cafeteria
I suddenly think of the blonde woman
whose marriage is falling apart and the dark
circles under her eyes, as if two moons
had lost their light there; I think of how
she so unevenly layered the pickles and tomato
with the pink turkey flesh and the odd way
she has of wearing what she calls a "wife-beater"
T-shirt, even in winter. Her fingers have left
their slender depression in the bun so in
this tangential way we touch. An