Women's Voices (Lalla Ded)

The soul, like the moon,
is new, and always new again.

And I have seen the ocean
continuously creating.

Since I scoured my mind
and my body, I too, Lalla,
am new, each moment new.

My teacher told me one thing,
Live in the soul.

When that was so, I began to go naked,
and dance.

Born in Kashmir, northern India, in the 14th Century, Lal Ded (often called Lalla, meaning “Seeker) was married at age twelve to a husband who ignored her and a mother-in-law who mistreated her. She found refuge in spirituality and became a wandering pilgrim, teaching and composing hundreds of songs.

I was passionate,
filled with longing,
I searched
far and wide.
But the day
that the Truthful One
found me,
I was at home.

For ever we come, for ever we go;
For ever, day and night, we are on the move.
Whence we come, thither we go,
For ever in the round of birth and death,
From nothingness to nothingness.
But sure, a mystery here abides,
A Something is there for us to know.
(It cannot all be meaningless).




I might disperse the southern clouds,
I might drain out the sea,
I might cure the incurable sick,
But I cannot convince a fool.

You Can't Go Home Again -- Or To the Fair (Patricia Potter)

First, I have to admit that I am and always have been a child at heart. When I’m a hundred, I will still be ten. I take a childish delight in nearly anything new and many things old.

I’ve always had a passion for ice shows, circuses, and anything to do with a boat – from canoes to windjammers. I adore neighborhood arts and craft fairs. But for the past forty years I’ve neglected one of the events that always called to me: the state fair.

My first experience at a large fair came when I was seventeen and wanting desperately to fall in love. I had a rare date with someone I liked very much, and he took me to the fair. It was a star-studded night as I remember. The sounds of the carousel and entertainment were magical, the lights enchanting, the food irresistible and the people happy. We went on the Ferris Wheel, and he won a stuffed bear for me. I was in heaven.

The next fair I attended was in Atlanta. I double dated with a friend, and though I had graduated from college and was an almost jaded newspaper reporter my enchantment was undiminished. I loved all the glitter, and crowds and again the Ferris Wheel and this time a roller coaster. I gained another bear, and I still have that aging bruin. Winning bears apparently is a rite of passage for every red-blooded American male.

That was my last one until yesterday. There either wasn’t one around, or there wasn’t time to go, nor anyone who shared my love of midways and rides and countless refreshment stands. I moved to Memphis ten years ago and each year eagerly looked forward to the Mid South Fair held every September. It was supposed to be a wonderful affair but deadlines always got in the way. Or I was traveling. But this is the last year for the fair. Maybe. It is being ejected from its location, and I decided I had to go. I’d heard about the wonderful food, and the great roller coaster (did I mention I love roller coasters?))

Not only might it be my last chance to attend the fair, but my friend, Deb Dixon, a woman of endless talents, had won first prize for a quilt, and it was displayed in a place of honor. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t go and view it?

Another deadline, but what the heck.

So I went to the fair, and discovered -- quite sadly -- you can’t go home again.

Deb’s quilt was marvelous, but somehow everything else was off. The funhouse looked like a trailer that barely survived Katrina. The Ferris Wheel wasn’t tall at all. The barker for a plastic booth proclaiming the world’s smallest horse looked old and tired. I decided to pass it by, as I passed a booth selling glimpses of an alive headless woman. According to the trailer housing the exhibit, a starlet had been decapitated but somehow doctors had saved her.
It cost two dollars for a peek. I don’t think so.

Okay.

Down to the barns to see the animals. The barn was empty, the animals gone. Petting zoo next. Plastic hens and a few rabbits too well caged for petting. No kids, either.

Food. The food at the Mid South Fair is legendary. I decided to taste a little bit of everything. Started with some kind of potato chip fresh from oil and dribbled with cheese. The first few pieces were good, then boring. Philly cheese sandwich next.

Nothing like the one I had in Philadelphia.

Fresh corn on the cob. Tasteless.

One barbecue rib. My favorite barbecue place down the street was much better.

It’s ninety-two degrees. There’s no shade. The booths look worn, the trailers tired, the rides unadventuresome. The roller coast had been sold off, and was gone.

Time to go.

I would have been disappointed had I not known that I will never again yearn to go to the fair when I’m on deadline. Relief.

And yet I feel as if I’ve lost a part of myself. Some of the magic is gone. I’ll miss the anticipation, even the disappointment when plans to attend fall through. There had always been the fair – alluring and magical – and now it’s faded.

Moonglow (LynnK)

The sun was setting on Wednesday evening as we gathered, a dozen of us, for water aerobics. The day had been warm, so I skipped practice for Handel’s Messiah to join the other Aqua-naughties at the far end of Coronado’s recreation pool.

We back-poolers are the ones who have mastered the art of simultaneous high-intensity aerobics and yakking. Mostly about food. Go figure. Or singing along to the music. Yipyipyipyipyipyipyipyip boomboomboomboomboomboom get a job! Nanananaa!Nananananaa! We’re thinking of forming a rock group. The Pagan Babes.

Up front, the scarily energetic young Leader and her devoted followers are throwing themselves into frog leaps, cross-country "skiing," jumping jills, donkey kicks, and assorted other means of legalized, self-imposed torture.

Don’t get me wrong. Although we aqua-naughties are young only at heart, we work hard. Usually. But unlike the Good Students in the front, we don’t feel obliged to follow the drill. I detest "sprinting," so I boogie. I prefer "pendulums" to "sinkers." Dolores likes to lunge.
Sue sometimes abandons us for the competition pool to swim laps. Thea performs invisibly, only her head breaking the water.

The Aquatics Center is located on a narrow spit of land known as the Silver Strand, with the ocean on one side behind a sprouting of condos and San Diego Bay alongside us on the other. We’re outdoors, with glass windscreens that help until November. Even then, it gets too cold only for weenies like me.

The evening was proceeding as usual until the sunlight over the black west went (h/t to Gerard Manley Hopkins). And then, ah, rising above the eastern mountains, soared the Harvest Moon.

I cannot tell you how beautiful it was, huge and round and golden against the indigo sky. The colored, twinkling lights of the city mosaic-ed into the background. To the left, the bridge curved like a dancer’s arm. The moon traced a silver-gold path across the dark water of the bay, a primal summons to ancient mysteries.

So I did what came naturally. Lifting my head, raising my arms, I howled.

Moments later, the Aqua-naughties—of course, they immediately understood—took to howling as well. And shortly after, the others joined in. Choral practice after all! Howl-leluiah! Except that we were baying at the moon.

I’d bet nothing like that had ever occurred in Coronado!

It didn’t last long. We were pretty breathless from exercise and blather. But just as we set to howling, a nice-looking guy who’d been working out in the large competition pool strode past us on his way to the locker rooms.

I’ve no idea what he thought was happening. Maybe the equivalent of construction guys hailing a cute chick, or that we’d all got high on chlorine fumes. We were facing his direction at that point, wet and scraggly, looking more like the witches from Macbeth than Harvest Goddesses. All I can say is that the look on his face was priceless.

Later that evening, showered and robed, I walked alone beside the bay and watched the moon rise high over San Diego. A cool breeze lifted my hair. Water lapped against the dock. A white heron, glowing in the moonlight, poised motionless on a rock and waited for supper to swim by.

How lucky I am.

Thelma & Louise Do Arizona (Maggie)

There we are, my "BFF" Michele and I standing on a big rock with nothing between us and the plummet to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. And while I may look as if I'm smiling, I was actually shaking in my sneakers. It's scary being that close to the edge. But I'm getting ahead of myself, so let me 'splain. No, there's not time, let me summarize. This past weekend, my publisher invited me to be a guest at their sales conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. Naturally I went a couple of days early and convinced Michele to go along. But our time was very limited. My "event" (dinner, cocktail party and speaking engagement) was Monday evening. I had to perform a wedding the previous Friday. So we flew out on Saturday, arriving too late in the evening to do anything.

Sunday morning we rented a car. I wanted a Mustang. All they had was a Corolla. And we began our whirlwind tour of Arizona by driving 4 hours north to the Grand Canyon. Where we proceeded to climb out onto a ledge because other people were doing it. Michele went out way further than I did. She got into a really scary spot. I stayed a bit safer. I was none to comfy out there, but my enthusiasm grew when Michele wouldn't let me back to safety until I gave her a good picture. =) (We later learned that 8 to 12 people fall from there and die each year!)

We also drove and toured as much as we could on Monday, focusing on the Sedona area. This shot is of Montezuma Castle, the remnants of a structure built by Native Americans long ago.


We visited the V-bar-V ranch as well as the Pylatki sites, to see petroglyphs, pictographs, and more ruins. There was a cave like area in the side of a mountain where it was obvious people once lived. I suspect this particular "room" was a special one, where women gave birth. And since we didn't have time to stay for the tour guide's extensive explanations, I have only my gut instinct to base that on. But the formations in the ceiling were very similar to other ancient birthing sites I've seen in documentaries and in books. So I'm betting I'm right.


We had an absolutely fantastic time. The scenery was breathtaking, from the towering red rocks of Sedona, to the sheer, unimaginable enormity of the Grand Canyon. Natural beauty so potent it took our breath away. It's a transformative experience visiting this place. I only wish we'd had more time. But I'm already into planning another trip, a real vacation this time, where everything doesn't have to be crushed into two short days. And in the meantime, I have a whole list of wonderful experiences to add to my gratitude list, tops among them, the fact that I have a friend like Michele in my life.

Meanwhile, let me give you the best news of all. Sally the Great Dane is FINE. Her tummy issues were not caused by any physical problem. Every test came back clean. It was all probably triggered by stress. That is, the stress of going to the kennel while I've been traveling lately. The vet said if it were her dog, she'd give the kennel one more try. It's been three times now, and Sally may just have needed to get used to it. So I may try it once more. And if she gets sick again, I'll have to find in-home care for her. We've switched her to a special prescription diet food, and I'm doing Reiki on her daily, so maybe next time her reaction won't be so severe. Right now, she's feeling great, and my main goal is to keep her calm and soothed, and to try to put some of the weight she lost back onto her. Life is once again, perfect.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that MOON FEVER is on sale NOW!

Until next time!
Maggie

Behind Closed Doors (Tara Taylor Quinn)

WARNING: Difficult Subject Matter

This summer, a high school-aged close relative of mine was at home in her bed in the middle of the night where she belonged. A normal night, just like hundreds of others. Except that this night, while her mom and step father slept right down the hall, an intruder got behind the closed doors of their home, behind her closed bedroom door, and, with what she knew was a knife at her throat, spent the next two hours raping her. He'd been to their house once before. Knew what screen to cut. The dog recognized him.
She's a strong girl. Raises pigs for slaughter, hunts with her step dad, knows how to gut a deer. But he was stronger. And she is forever changed.
The story doesn't end there. He's older than her but attended her school last year. He claims that she invited him over. That she cut the screen. The prosecutor is reviewing the evidence and is to decide this week whether or not she's going to prosecute. This young girl who was violated in ways she shouldn't even have to imagine, then put through the difficulties of a hospital rape kit exam, and interrogated twice by the police, now faces the possibility that she will be blamed for all of this. And if she gets lucky and the prosecutor does prosecute, she faces a trial where a defense attorney will attempt to prove that the rape was her fault. That it really wasn't rape at all.
She has demons now. Fights them every single night. She, who was so strong and able, panics at the idea of being left alone. She feels guilty because she's pretty. And her only sin was being born female.
I have a book out from MIRA today, a psychological thriller, Behind Closed Doors. The first scene in this book, written a year ago, is a home invasion. A bi-racial couple is asleep in their bed at night - behind the closed doors of their home. Two men break in. They tie up the man and take turns with the woman. And the two of them are left with the remains of their lives, their marriage. She has demons. Fights them every single night. She, who was so strong and able, panics at the idea of being left alone. She feels guilty for her existence. And he does for his, as well. He's convinced that the attack was racially motivated, suspects The Ivory Nation, a white supremacy organization, and is hell bent, prepared to go to hell, to prove his theory and make these men pay. The two of them are put through medical procedures, interrogated by the police several times, called in for line ups - and if their attackers are found, they will be put on trial, made to answer while every minute detail of the nightmare is dissected. They will be made to feel as though they are liars, that they somehow asked for, provoked the attack.
I am very personally acquainted with another woman who has suffered. She was a college student. A virgin. On a date with a classmate she'd known for more than a year. A church going man she trusted. He took her out to a dark road in the middle of miles of farmland and forced himself on her. He was one hundred pounds heavier than she was. Eleven inches taller. He could lift her with one arm. But who would ever believe that this nice man whom everyone looked up to, who was a big brother to her sorority, would ever do such a thing? He told her it was her fault. That she'd teased him. Led him on. She'd owed him. And with a heart full of shame, she never said a word to anyone about what happened. She knew she'd have been put through humiliating medical exams, interrogations, perhaps a trial. And what proof did she have? Who'd have believed her? It took her years to admit what had happened. After all that time, some still didn't believe her. And she still has demons. Fights them in the dark of the night. She, who was so strong and able, has always panicked at the thought of being alone. She has always felt unworthy, deserving of abuse and ashamed of what happened to her that night.
I cry for each of these women. And for the millions of others just like them. They suffer, every single day of their lives, consciously or not, for something that is criminal. Worse than criminal. Rape is a sacrilege against all that is natural and beautiful and gentle. It desecrates one of life's most precious gifts. And the aftermath damages, sometimes forever, the heart of the woman who has suffered so. Our society does what it can, in many cases, to help us prevent the crime. But we need to do more, far more, to protect the victims of this crime. Counseling, where you sometimes feel as though you are singled out as 'different' from other women, is not enough. We need to band together as woman - and aware men - to wrap our arms around all women. To watch each other's backs. And if they get dirty, to wash them, too. We need to be aware, to keep our eyes open, to know. And to realize that when rape happens to one of us, it happens to all of us. Because we live in a society where rape exists. We all have to fear, or at least be wise. We all have to watch our steps, and our daughter's steps.
And, I hope, the more aware we become, the more we suffer with our sisters who have been raped, the more we speak of these things and openly proclaim that rape is NOT the victim's fault, no matter what she did or didn't do to provoke it, the less different they become. These sisters of ours had a precious gift stolen from them, and our love and support, our validation and understanding, is what we can give back to them. We can help fill the empty and scary places, to replace some demons with angels. To give new life. Please think about that. Please don't look away. Our sisters need us. We need each other.

CSI Los Angeles? (Suzanne Forster)

As far as I know, there is no such television show, but I sure wish there was. I would have taped a bunch of episodes, stayed home this weekend where it was safe and dry and watched them, as opposed to taking a quickie research trip up to the City of the Angels—and encountering the first torrential rain of the year.

I went up there to research The Private Concierge, a book that’s due to my publisher in a matter of weeks. It was supposed to be an overnight trip, and I’d heard the predictions of rain, but didn’t pay much attention. It hadn’t rained in southern California in so long I’d forgotten what the wet stuff looks like.

Apparently Mother Nature decided to remind me. It didn’t rain, it flooded. Forty nights and days worth, all in forty-eight hours. The sky opened up and cried me a river. It was supposed to have been a one-day trip, but because of all the precip, I decided to spend an extra night in Los Angeles—and I was quite proud of myself, thinking I’d avoided the worst of the downpour. But when I hit the road to drive home the next morning, it started pouring again. Buckets. BIG buckets. And then there was a major pileup on the 405 freeway, and I got stuck in that awful mess. No one was hurt, thank goodness. There was some minor damage to a few cars, but I escaped that too, luckily.

Plus, southern California desperately needed the rain. But did it have to rain on the very weekend that I was driving up there to do research? I thought about kissing the ground when I got back to Newport Beach, but I would have drowned. I couldn't see out the window with the wipers on high. This was no typical rainstorm. I hear they’re now calling them microbursts, and they’re more like tropical storms. The rain sounds like machine gun fire. It's hard to imagine that it doesn't damage the car.

Despite the weather, I got lots of good work done and was greatly relieved to find that most of the research I’d done on the net or through contacts was fine. Unfortunately, though, I got zero from the West L.A. Community Police Station, which is where one of my secondary characters works. The curmudgeonly officer at the desk told me if it was crime-related, he could talk to me. Otherwise, SOL. Their community relations person wasn't there, either, but I got his number, and I got to see the station.

I found it ironic that one of the people there, who I think may have been waiting to be booked told me what the second floor of the station looked like, which was one of things I needed to know. That's where the detectives’ offices are, if they have offices. I'm hoping it's a bullpen situation. This guy knew all about the holding cells.

My camera presented another glitch. It didn’t work, even with new batteries. That’s why there aren’t any candid pics with this blog. The stock shot of L.A. at night, glowing and golden in the rain, is courtesy of Google, but for some reason, the city didn’t look quite that beautiful when I was getting drenched.

If you’ve ever entertained the fantasy of a leisurely walk in Century City, which is one of the west L.A. locations in my story, prepare yourself for some long blocks. I made the mistake of thinking I could stroll from a restaurant where we had lunch one day to a mall where I needed to do some quick shopping. The maitre d’ said it was only a short walk, a couple of blocks at most, which grievously underestimated the number of blocks—and their length. Century City’s blocks go on forever, like the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz. Man, did I need Dorothy’s red shoes.

Possibly I should have gotten a clue from the fact that this was Thursday, a regular work day, yet no one was walking. Really, no one. Century City is not like New York or Chicago or even L.A., where the sidewalks are crowded with people shopping and commuting from one point to another on foot. Of course, it’s much smaller than any of those cities, but still I expected a mini-skyscraper skyline. Nope, not really. Everything’s too expansive and spread out.

The scene I wrote in which my heroine, Lane, is out walking on the Avenue of the Stars will have to be revised. It describes a bustling avenue where the other walkers look curiously at Lane, who’s wearing sneakers and a long black pencil skirt. People would be looking curiously, I’m sure, but it would be from their cars. I returned to Century City on Friday and did see a grand total of two walkers that day, but they looked pretty lonely.

So, yes, my quickie research trip had some bad and even scary moments. But still, the good experiences far outweighed the bad. Dodger Stadium at historic Chavez Ravine was enough to make me want to be a baseball fan. If the game slowed down, I could sneak off to the parking lot and gaze at the incredible views of downtown L.A., which really is a spectacular city, and the San Gabriel mountains. The air was crystal clear the morning I was there, and it was a truly amazing panoramic sight.

Also, almost everything in the scene I’d already written about the stadium, garnered from internet research, was correct. Now I can add the breathtaking view of the city and give my setting even more local color and authenticity.

I can strongly recommend a quaint mom and pop Mexican restaurant called La Serenata on Pico in West L.A. I was a little nervous about the chile relleno when the plate arrived. It looked oddly flattened, as if something large and heavy had rolled over it, and the sauce was the bright orange of the highway construction cones. But it ranked up there with best Mexican food I’ve ever had. And the margaritas? Amazing.

Century City is open, spacious and beautiful, but I’m glad to be setting my story in other parts of Los Angeles as well. I really do love cities where you can leave your hotel or restaurant and walk to wonderful places, discovering unexpected treasures as you go. Cities big enough to inspire awe, but dense enough to make you feel surrounded and secure. My friend described the canyons a big city creates with its tall buildings and relatively narrow streets, and that’s exactly the feeling I had as we were driving though the heart of downtown L.A. on well-known boulevards like Olympic and Wilshire.

We saw sun and shadows, blue storefront awnings and lush hanging plants. People ate al fresco in restaurants that fanned out onto the sidewalk. And they walked everywhere. I only wish we’d parked the car and walked a bit too, rain or no rain. I love cities, big and small. And I love short blocks!

Suz

DEADLINE DEMENTIA

So I even forgot to post last week. I'm in the throes of deadline dementia -- that state of insanity that takes over your life when you're finishing a book, whether it's overdue or not. And this one is definitely overdue.
It's Reno's fault, not mine. He just didn't want to cooperate. I should have known when I made a Yakuza punk samurai as my hero that he'd give me nothing but trouble. It's his style, along with waist-length bright red hair and tattooed blood teardrops on his cheeks.
Yeah, I know what you're saying. Anne Stuart, are you out of your bloody mind?
But the problem is, I love him. Just freaking adore him -- he's naughty and mean and funny and honorable and gentle and rough and an absolute hoot. So sue me.
So here's my tally: Tuesday 13 pages, Wednesday 16 pages, Thursday 13 pages, Friday 15 pages, Saturday 25 pages, Sunday 15 pages. I'm a goddess of speed.
I'm on a private e-mail loop, and while I've been speeding through this book I surface every now and then to send a cry out into the wilderness. Here are some of my observations:

First day:
So, okay, I'm working non-stop, and you remember what I'm like when I
work non-stop. I have to chatter to my fellow typists as I zip along.
My thought for this hour -- my hero, Reno, is a yakuza samurai
punkster. And his language is atrocious. His favorite saying
(already established in earlier books) is "holy motherfucker." And
his language would be sprinkled with four letter words.
However, four letter words get really old, really fast. So my
challenge for today is to make his dialogue believable without od'ing
on the cursing. I imagine it's kind of like writing a character with
a dialect or a speech impediment. Less is definitely more.

next day:

This is unfolding in such an interesting way. The sex in particular. My hero is young and wicked -- and he's suddenly developed a conscience. Interesting. He's the most overt bad boy of all the ICE books, and yet he's turning out to be the sweetest.

next day:

16 pages so far. My hero has just become the nastiest a hero has ever been, after being one of the most honorable. The boy is messed up. I may have to tone it down -- he's just too cruel (verbally). I also used fuck three times in two sentence. I'm using it too much, but that's exactly what he'd say.

Ewwww! I just wrote something really gross. Well, it's the yakuza, after all. What do you call fingers and parts of fingers? Do you call them digits? Or is that just a slang term?

and finally:

Shit. I think I need one more twist in the plot, but right now I don't know what it would be. It just seems to come up a little short. Maybe stretch the third act. Yup, that's probably it. The hero just appears, attempting to be deus ex machina (the heroine has to rescue him) but it makes it less interesting. I'll have to rethink that.

Krissie, talking to herself but she doesn't care because she's gone stark, staring mad, mad I tell you

And I've got miles to go before I sleep. If you want to follow along on my mad tear I'll be keeping up with it at
http://annestuart.blogspot.com/

Come on over and keep me company, cheer me on, and celebrate when I finish.

You writers out there (and non-writers as well). Anybody have any tips for getting a huge amount of work done in a very short time?

Autumn Equinox: A Celebration

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials,and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that
they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them
on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine.
Rainer Maria Rilke


The Druids call this celebration, Mea'n Fo'mhair, and honor the Green Man, the God of the Forest, by offering libations to trees. Offerings of ciders, wines, herbs and fertilizer are appropriate at this time.... Mabon is considered a time of the Mysteries. It is a time to honor Aging Deities and the Spirit World....


Smoke hangs like haze over harvested fields,
The gold of stubble, the brown of turned earth
And you walk under the red light of fall
The scent of fallen apples, the dust of threshed grain
The sharp, gentle chill of fall.
Here as we move into the shadows of autumn
The night that brings the morning of spring
Come to us, Lord of Harvest
Teach us to be thankful for the gifts you bring us ...


To many ancient people, the waning of the light signaled death.
For example, in Welsh mythology, this is the day of the year when
the God of Darkness, Goronwy, defeats the God of Light, Llew, and
takes his place as King of the world. To this day in Japan, the equinox
is celebrated by visits to the graves of family members, at which time
offerings of flowers and food are made and incense is burned. The
three days preceding and following the equinox are called "higan,"
or the "Other side of the River of Death."


The Far Field
I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.
I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.




Leaves fall,
the days grow cold.
The Goddess pulls her mantle of Earth around Her
as You, O Great Sun God, sail toward the West
to the land of eternal enchantment,
wrapped in the coolness of night.
Fruits ripen,
seeds drip,
the hours of day and night are balanced.






There comes a time when autumn asks,
"What have you been doing all summer?"

About Covers and Titiles . . . (Patricia Potter)

I’m often asked about covers and titles. How much input do we have?
Do we have a veto?

When we first started this blog, we asked what people would like discussed. I remember someone mentioning covers, but then it kinda got lost as the year went on.

The subject came up yesterday when I and three writer friends did our annual pilgrimage to the main Shelby County Library (Memphis) where we discuss the appeal of romance to its branch librarians. It’s all part of their in-house training and one we eagerly embrace. Any time spent in spreading the word about romances is time well spent.

But it reminded me that everyone seems interested in covers, bad and good, and titles, bad and good, and with more than fifty published books, I’ve had my share of all four.

I must confess I’m not very good at titles, but every once in a while I have a stroke of genius. In my mind. Usually not in my editor’s. Probably half of my titles survive, and the others are usually the product of a call at 4:15 p.m. on Wednesday with the news that either the publisher or marketing department hates my title and I have to have a new one in the next 15 minutes (This has happened with four different publishers).

This sends me screaming to my Thesaurus while my editor and I frantically go over magically marketable words. We usually compromise on something that I don’t think is nearly as apt, but there it is.

I must mention my favorite story of a title change. I’d written a romantic suspense full of angst. The hero was a former cop who had served ten years of a life sentence in prison for killing his partner. Out working on a road gang, he saves the life of the heroine and her son after an accident but in so doing is badly injured by an explosion. He suffers a concussion and loses his memory. He doesn’t have amnesia. He has brain damage. He will never regain his memory.

As I said. Angst. Angst all over the place. The heroine has her own tragic story. She was a rising district attorney when her husband, also an attorney, became involved in drugs and corruption and killed himself. Needless to say, she lost her job and is raising a young son on her own.

I titled it “Twisted Shadows.” The title fit the book, which was full of shadows for both characters. The hero didn’t know whether he had committed the crime of which he was accused. The heroine is terrified of loving again, especially someone with the hero’s background.

My editor called and said she had great news. They were changing the title to “Home For Christmas.”

I was, to say the least, stunned. There was no Christmas in the book.

But the publisher had decided to make it a Christmas book and I had to go back and put in a Christmas thread, and “Twisted Shadow” became “Home for Christmas.”

The book really did turned out to be better with the added Christmas touches, and it's one of my all-time favorites because it’s so emotional, but I still shake my head every time I remember that phone call.

Then there are often endless discussions about certain words. I’d planned a series of books centering around a newspaper, all with “Devil” someplace in the title. The first, “Tempting The Devil” made it through, but the second did not. Then the publisher thought the title might lead readers to think it could be paranormal or something other than what it was. So we’re going back to “Shadows” for the series, the one underway being “Catch A Shadow.”

Then there are covers. Do we have input? Well . . . yes and no.

We are asked our opinion, then it may or may not be incorporated in the final product. Usually when I see the proofs, it’s really too late to change it. A huge amount of money has already been spent on the cover and any changes will cost dearly.

I’ve been mostly happy with covers although there have been some misses. One, despite great intentions, did not do well in the execution. Two tiny people on the cover looked like hippy action figures, despite the 1500's time period, and it was very likely to qualify for the writer's Hall of Infamy for career-ending covers.

In this case frantic modifications (the people were erased) changed it from horrible to unexciting before it hit the book shelves. But the original cover -- already finished when I saw it -- went out to buyers, and sales fell drastically. Covers, as we all know, can make or break a book.

Ah, the joy of publishing.

What about my fellow bloggers. Good titles? Bad? Cover stories? Bring them on.

Waiting for Dunno (LynnK)

What’s going on these days? A convergence of Evil Forces? Mercury in Retrograde (whatever that means, but those who know say it’s really bad)? End-of-Summer Blues? Why is it so many of my friends–and most important, me!–are going through a dark spell?

Not a crisis, most of us. We’d probably rise to a major trial and handle it without complaint. OK, with complaint. But we would soldier on and do what must be done. Even me, although I never imagine I can handle a crisis. And yet, I have done so, and will again. Like water in an underground aquifer, strength lies clear and cool inside us, rising only when we most need it.

Meantime, there has lately been a nebulous sense of Great Doom hovering over us. Or maybe of Great Nuisance. Anyway, it’s there, dropping shards of trouble on our defenseless heads. And we keep expecting it to suddenly let loose with a barrage of meat-seeking missiles.

When troubles come, Hamlet said, they come not single spies, but in battalions. So when the first annoyance strikes, and the second, and lo, a third, we necessarily steel ourselves for an invasion. More importantly, we are possessed by a Really Bad Mood.

Some whine to family and friends. Rather like I’m doing tonight. Or trying to, because for the last few weeks I have been experiencing nearly every form of computer problem known to non-geeks. The ongoing saga of Lynn vs. Time Warner Cable (with Earthlink as my ally, or possibly a devious collaborator with the enemy) continues. Yesterday I was on the phone with one or the other, and on a conference call with them both, for several hours. Grrrrrr.

What’s more, I can’t make anything work on this new laptop. It’s pretty, yes. Sleek. Not yet infested with cat hair. And it whispers sweet nothings in my ear. Constantly.

"Windows has blocked some startup problems." Like I care? "Do you really want to open this program?" Well, yeah. That’s why I double-clicked on the icon. "Internet Explorer has experienced a problem and needs to close." Poor baby. While you’re closed, get your damn act together!

I also have a stack of incorrect bills to be contested. With Time Warner, of course. And AT&T, which thinks I owe them hundreds of dollars. Everyone knows I never call anyone. Really, I should give up phones altogether. I lost my favorite watch. The strap must have broken, and I never noticed its departure. The construction-crew trucks have started their incessant back-up beeping again. I dropped a can of black olives on my toesies.

Which is why I am feeling like Eeyore these days. Or like the tramps who try to entertain themselves while they wait endlessly for Godot. Something Bad is coming. Or, nothing Good is coming, which is nearly the same thing.

However, this too will pass. Lately, Sister Krissie has been quoting the 14th-Century mystic, Julian of Norwich, whose words have echoed down the years: "...all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well." I think I’ll set those words to simple music for our traditional "Circle" at the next RWA Conference.

Meantime, even if all really will be well, there’s this one problem. For most of us, "well" means "we get what we want, and we don’t get beaten down by what we don’t want." Julian, though, was channeling words spoken to her during a visionary experience. And the Divine Force may define "well" in quite another way.

Julian wasn’t even her name, by the way. She was a Englishwoman who, at the age of 30, became ill and had her vision. A delusion, some might say. She later became a hermit, living in a cell attached to a church named St. Julian’s, which is as close to a name for her as we have. According to modern scholars, in her book, Showings, or Revelations of Divine Love, "she handles complex thoughts clearly and is rhetorically effective."

Which is more than I can say for myself tonight! But it’s nice to think that way back in the late 1300s, a woman wrote a book that still inspires us today. Here’s to you, Julian. Thanks.

Now I’m hoping I can get on line and successfully get this posted. If only so that I can wish for you, and for all of us, that all manner of things will truly be well.

There's Always Something (Maggie Shayne)

It should be a fantastic week. I've been doing a lot of traveling lately, and it culminates in a trip to a resort in Scottsdale, Arizona this weekend. I have a rush of titles, five of them, coming out between now and December, with the first one (Moon Fever) hitting the shelves this week. I have a booksigning at one of my favorite stores tonight, The First Edition in Norwich NY (5 to 7 p.m. for the locals.) It's fall, my favorite season. I've decorated for Halloween already. There are ghost lights and skull head lights hanging from my shrubbery, a lighted witch on one door, a giant skull on the other, pumpkins and gourds on the front porch and a little scarecrow on the lawn. I've been having fun lately with people I love. I got paid, caught up on bills, the writing is going great.

But there's always something. Abraham calls it "contrast." Bad things happen to show you what you don't want, so that you can better identify what you do want. Once you know what you do want, you can begin lining up with it emotionally and vibrationally, and then you get it. That's how things got to this very very good place for me. One by one I was shown stuff I didn't want, and so I turned my focus to what would be better, and things got better, and better and better.

I guess if you get too comfortable, you stop growing, so you have to get some more stuff you don't want, to keep you growing and expanding and becoming better.

Okay, I get that. So this week, my refrigerator seems to be failing. Food gets warm, liquid leaks out the bottom, I crank it up higher, and it gets better, but then it gets worse again. Got it. I don't want a broken refrigerator. I need to focus on a working one. I'd actually been thinking one of those retro-ones that looks like it came from the fifties would be nice. Maybe this is how I'll be pushed into getting it. Also this week, I've learned that I don't want a washing machine that no longer spins the water out of the clothes. They come out dripping wet. I'm going to pull it out today and try to see if the belt has broken or slipped off. If that's not the problem, then it's beyond my Ms. Fix-it abilities and I'll have to start looking for a new one. And of course the lawn mower is still busted. I found a problem--maybe not THE problem but A problem. I ordered the parts, and I'm going to try to fix it myself. But I'm not convinced the one issue I found (a broken lift mechnism on the mower deck) is the same thing causing the engine to belch black smoke. So I may need a new lawn mower too. Or maybe what I need is a handyman who can fix little things like these for me at a reasonable price. That would be a real blessing!

But those mechanical breakdowns are minor issues compared to the big one. Sally is sick.

One of the things I learned that I didn't want over the past few months was to be housebound because of my elderly dogs. It was becoming a real problem. I wanted to travel, but I couldn't because no one could really care for the dogs but me. I tried leaving them with family, but it was really too much to ask. Then I found a great kennel, and though it's 42 miles away, it seems to have become the perfect solution. At least, for Wrinkles, the little English bulldog, it is. She loves it there and comes home happy, healthy, clean, spunky and perfect.

But last weekend, I left the dogs there for the second time, and for the second time, Sally, the Great Dane, came home with what I'll delicately refer to as an intestinal problem. The first time, it only lasted a day, and she was fine again, and I chalked it up to stress. She's a very nervous dog. But this time, it's far more serious. I picked them up Sunday and she's been sick all week long, and it seems to be getting worse. I had another quick overnight trip Tuesday/Wednesday. That time a neighbor volunteered to care for the dogs, and I let him since it was short notice for the kennel and Sally loves him. I was sure things were clearing up Tuesday, but Wednesday night when I got home, it was clear Sally's condition had worsened. I was up with her every hour and a half to let her out, and even then she had one accident. I saw blood this time, too. This is way more serious than stress.

This morning I intend to call the vet and see if I can run a sample over there to see if there's a parasite or something. Taking her to the vet is going to be a real challenge, since I don't want this intestinal distress all over the interior of my new car for the third time and it seems inevitable that's what will happen. Of course I'll take her if the vet says she needs to see her. My hope is that she can diagnose the problem and prescribe somehing that will help the poor thing. If she can't do that without an in-person visit, I guess we'll try doggie diapers and stop every ten miles or so.

And I've got the Arizona trip this weekend to contend with. It's far too important to cancel. Wrinkles will be fine at the kennel. I'm just very worried about leaving Sally. The neighbor, who adores her, insists he doesn't mind watching her. He's home all day, can take her out every hour to prevent accidents, and only lives within walking distance, so I think that might be the best solution for this trip. I guess I have everything covered. It's just that there's a part of me that's afraid she's not going to make it, and if she dies while I'm away, it's not only going to break my heart, but leave me with a heavy sense of guilt. She's losing weight visibly. All within a few days' time. It's shocking and scary.

Anyway, I'm calling the vet as soon as they open and we'll take it from there. I'll do everything I possibly can for my ailing pal. So vet today, booksigning tonight, Wrinkles to the kennel Friday morning, a wedding to perform Friday night, Sally to the neighbor's Saturday morning and then off to the airport.

(I didn't have enough to fill my life for a while there, so I told the universe I wanted more. Maybe I need to crank that one down a bit, hmm? Focus on some down time now and then.)

And next week, I'm going to have to have my car professionally cleaned.

There really is a ton of great stuff happening. Lots of positive, wonderful things. It's just hard to focus on those when your pal is looking up at you with sad eyes and you have to leave her and hate to. And a washing machine that works is kind of crucial at the moment, too.

Are you listening, Universe?

Until next time, when I hope to have a much improved situation to report,
Maggie

Standing Up (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I have no problem with standing solid behind what my heart tells me. As a matter of fact, doing so gives me strength - and adrenalin - and when I listen from the inside out all of life feels more real, more valuable, deeper, more peaceful. I'm good with that.

Where I'm not so good is when it comes to dealing with the outside. I've read the Bible a time or two. (I graduated from a Christian University and we were required to take Bible class every single semester.) There's a famous passage in there (okay more than one) that stuck. 'Turn the other cheek.' Probaby a paraphrase, unless you get one of those modernly translated versions. Turn the other cheek. I took the law upon myself. Pefected it. Prided myself on following the edict as it was sanctioned from above. Most of my storybroad sisters can attest to the fact that I've turned that cheek in a big way a time or two.

They didn't seem to think it was such an admirable thing at least one of those times. But, hey, if you turn that cheek with dignity and class then you're taking the high road right? And isn't that the better road? At least, many of us have been conditioned to think so.

I'm not so sure anymore. What's up there, anyway? Except an opportunity to look down your nose at all those poor souls below. And high altitude that makes you dizzy. You have to tread carefully up there, lest you fall. And the road's so straight that you miss most of life's twists and turns and surprises.

What I'm also not so sure about is that cheek thing. What if turning that cheek is really just a way to avoid conflict? What if it's weak? The easy way out? What if, in the name of turning the other cheek, we're really just giving up? Am I turning that cheek out of deep and abiding love for my fellow man? Or am I turning it because I have a need to avoid negative interaction at all costs?

These are all questions that have been plaguing me for months. I've been made sadly aware that I am a turner in the name of keeping peace. I am a sitter. I turn that darn cheek and then sit and wait to see how 'it' will all play out. The thing is, when I do that, I'm not playing at all. I'm a spectator in my own life. I hear my heart. I know. And I somehow seemed to expect that 'deep knowing' to be enough. There would be some magical, universal, karmic energy that would make sure that all I know will come to be, right?

It hasn't. I've lost many things that meant the world to me because I sat there, letting them take care of themselves. Assuming all would work out as it was meant to do. And now, as I sit (yep, still sitting) looking at my circumstances, at my life, as I struggle to comprehend how I got here, I know that I have no one but myself to blame. I knew. And I sat. I waited.

I don't want to wait anymore. Cover your ears. That high squeaking noise is my knees creaking. They're straightening. Slowly. They're stiff. The process is painful, but watch. Inch by inch I am trying to stand. Determined to stand. I will learn to stand.

Behind Closed Doors is out on the 26th of this month. It's a thriller/suspense. A MIRA release. The second in a trilogy. I've been doing a lot of promotion for the book and have a lot more coming up in the next weeks. Yesterday I had an interview that was supposed to have lasted five minutes and continued on for almost thirty. The interviewer was interested not so much in my writing, as in my topic. And why I was writing about it. The continuing 'character' in this trilogy is a white supremacy organization - The Ivory Nation. It's a vile, dangerous, debilitating group. And a gathering of people who are sacrificing self, striving to do God's will. The main character is a good man, a positive man, a history professor, who becomes positive he will do anything, at any cost, to rectify what he believes was a horrendous crime against goodness. The interviewer and I talked about the twists and turns the mind takes. About the very real terror inherent in having a mind that can be manipulated. And about the completely true facts on white supremacy. She asked me if I was afraid to speak out to her as I was doing. She's written for Oprah's O magazine and wanted to make certain that I was okay with her sending the article to them. My yes was instantaneous. Her shock showed me that while I might be on baby legs, I am standing.

I have a new neice. She's only fourteen, was born and raised and still lives in a small Ohio town. And has already taught me so much. She's funny and sweet and intelligent, but more, she's smart. Life smart. She stands up for what she wants while she thinks of others. She risks her heart, gets it hurt, and still manages to keep it open. When she needs help, she calls for it. When she wants something, she asks for it. She knows that her high school years are meant to be one of the most free, happy times of her life and she makes choices to make it so. She recognizes that privacy is peaceful - and that being close enough to others to avoid isolation is paramount to happy living. Most importantly, she stands up. Not by cutting others down, or blaming someone else for her lot, but by taking on the life she's been given and making the most of it. By being happy with it. And by making it what she wants it to be. At fourteen, she's better at holding others manipulation at bay than I am past forty. Rather than fearing others attempts to control her, she smiles and says no. And means it. And lives by it.

My cheeks are bruised. I have nowhere else to turn them, no fresh flesh to expose to the slaps. And so, this month, in this life, I stand. I do not intend or want to trample anyone. Period. I still want to live peacefully. But I will find the strength, the courage, to hold my head up. To face what is in front of me. And what is behind me. To brace my feet against the wind. To ask for help where I need it. To accept that help. To believe in it and be thankful for it.

Thirty years ago I lost what was probably the single most important chance at real happiness I'd ever have because I didn't stand up. I knew my heart. And I waited for it all to play out. When it didn't, I figured that it wasn't meant to. I walked away. And now, thirty years later, I find out that all I would have had to do was stand up. Speak my heart. Speak out. Ask. Accept. And I would have had what my heart most needed. Today I am standing. I am speaking. I am asking. I have been given a second chance.

Today, if you're even thinking about doing something, thinking about standing up, if you can share it with us, please do. Let's stand together, arm in arm, strengthening each other. I suspect I, at least, am going to need some heavy duty knee braces!

United we STAND!

A Day of Simple Pleasures (Suzanne Forster)

First, a confession. I’m a recovering workaholic, and simple pleasures do not come naturally to me. It actually took me a several days to come up with enough material for this blog, but now that I have my list, I can have an entire day of simple pleasures whenever I want. Plus, stretching the research out for several days kept me in a mellow frame of mind longer, despite being on a book deadline when I’m usually anything but mellow.

Because of the deadline, I made an executive decision not to come up with the kind of simple pleasures that would require me to clear my schedule for an entire day, or even part of the day. I just don’t have that kind of free time. Plus, I really wanted to prove to myself that I could enjoy them on a regular day, say any old day of my life, without altering my schedule at all. I wanted to make simple pleasures out of the ordinary stuff I do every day. Otherwise, I knew I’d come up with an excuse not to do it.

Do I know myself or what?

I really did want to keep it simple and clearing your entire day takes on an aura of something big. I wanted this to be small. Small and comforting.

So, here are some of my simple pleasures. A warning, though, these really are basic everyday things, like brushing your teeth. Yes, there are some ways to make the brushing of teeth a pleasure. First of all, pick a soft bristled brush and do it gently! I read somewhere that brushing too hard wears down not only the enamel, but the gum tissue. So, make nice to those gums and teeth. Baby them. Imagine a dozen tooth fairies fluttering their feathery little wings over your teeth and massaging your gums. Imagine them playing in the bubbles and using your mouth as a water slide.

(Note: If at any point, I’ve gone too far for you, like with the tooth fairies, you can skip that step.)

Second, choose a tooth paste with a flavor you like. There are some yummy ones out there. Breath Palette is available online, and there are 31 flavors, possibly inspired by Baskin Robbins, but all uniquely theirs. Fuji Apple, for example, or Pumpkin Pie. Also, if you have sensitive teeth, there are several pastes that won’t irritate those sensitive nerves. Try one, and you’ll enjoy your ice cream cones and your blended margaritas a lot more.

Fourth, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you rinse, when you have all the bubbles in your mouth and remember how you used to make faces at yourself when you were a kid. Make one! It gets your day off to a fun, goofy start, and it only takes a couple extra seconds. You have time for that.

The next thing on my list was eating whatever appealed to me, anything, with no conscious thought of calories or nutritional value. I wanted a huge cup of hot strawberry-vanilla tea and a couple squares of dark chocolate for breakfast, so that’s what I had.

Instead of gulping my daily ration of water from a plastic tumbler or directly from a bottle, I sipped from a large Waterford crystal glass, given to me years ago by a dear friend. Did you know that not all water is the same? Some tastes much better. Probably only those of us who live in hard water areas pay attention to such things. Newport Beach water is very hard, so I drink bottled, but I’ve found that in the bottling process most of the minerals are lost and the water tastes flat, like the distilled stuff you put in steam irons. Find water that has minerals listed in the ingredients. It’s delicious.

I also turned up the heat just a bit against the morning chill and wore a soft, frilly cotton nightgown while I worked, instead of my usual sweats. When I got chilly, I pulled an ultra-soft, plush pink throw over my legs. Made me feel like a princess. Also, Mandy, the cat, really loved the plush blanket and cozied up right next to me.

Mid-morning, I had two cups of fruity, slightly spicy hot peach tea instead of the more medicinal, but much better for you, green variety.

I also lingered in the bathroom, leafing through catalogs for a few minutes, even after I’d finished my business. I know. TMI.

I watched a morning talk show I love from beginning to end without working or doing anything else while it was on. This is decadence itself! I’m a multi-tasker to the point of nuttiness, so doing just ONE thing at a time felt so wrong, lol.

And then I got really crazy and did it again that night. I watched a new show I love, Burn Notice, without working. Just plumped up the pillows on the bed, laid there like a lump and watched the show. I probably won’t do that again, though. Two hours of unfettered TV is more than this recovering work junky can handle.

One morning this week, I noticed my legs needed shaving, and I don’t have a pedicure basin, so I actually sat on the bathroom countertop with my feet in the bowl, full of steaming hot, fragrant water, and I soaked them while shaving my legs. It was wonderfully relaxing and my feet were bright pink when I was done. I’m sure I helped my circulation, and I may have discovered a migraine cure. I’ve heard that diverting blood from the vessels in your head is a good thing.

That same morning, when I heard the news about O.J.’s arrest, I allowed myself to celebrate the possibility that there is justice in this world, even if sometimes it’s very late in coming

On a slightly less altruistic note, I also got a chuckle when I heard that one of my very nosey neighbors, who’s been known to spread hurtful gossip, had been stung by a bee. Where? On her nose! Her nose. Ah, poetic justice! (I never said there might not be some guilty pleasures among the simple ones.)

I accidentally misplaced the dh’s “physically pffft” T-shirt in the Good Will box. That gave me pleasure beyond words. It’s in absolute tatters. He’ll never miss it. But will the Good Will take it?

I went down to the garage and gazed at my car. It’s not even close to new, but I got it detailed for my birthday, and it looks new. I don’t drive a lot when I’m on deadline, but there’s nothing to stop me from going down and admiring my car. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

Another simple pleasure: smiling! Do we need a reason? I don’t know why. Just smile and see what happens. Then report back. Might make a good story.

Barry Manilow is a simple pleasure. I didn’t know that until I turned on the television one morning and watched him sing Copacabana live on the Today show. Suddenly, I understand his popularity.

Wow, simple pleasures are everywhere, waiting to ambush us and make us smile or relax us or lift us up. This realization is another one, I think. They’re self-fulfilling prophecies of the kind we need in our life. It just occurred to me that a compliment is another simple pleasure that pays it forward, meaning when you compliment someone you and the object of your compliment both receive the pleasure.

In the time it took to make up this short list, I noticed that some activities are more dense with pleasure than others. For me, the pleasure of doing less was dense. It almost didn’t matter what it was I was doing less of. Just doing less was heavenly. Even not preparing in any way for the simple pleasures was great. I didn’t think about what the pleasures were going to be, or what they should be, I just let them happen.

One afternoon, exhausted from working several hours without a break, I went downstairs with the thought of getting some fresh air and watering my flowers on the front deck, and I noticed Mandy napping on the carpet. It hit me that I’d always wanted to just flop down and nap like a cat, so I curled up on the carpet next to Mandy and dozed off for a few minutes. Mandy was not excited by this at all. When I woke up she’d moved to the window, and she gave me a look that dared me to invade her napping space again. S’okay. She has her simple pleasures. I have mine.

Do you have any simple pleasures that are a natural part of your day? I’d love to hear about them. I’ll add them to my list. Maybe we can all pay it forward and share some of the things that make us smile.

Suz

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

Lazy Sunday. But aren't they all?

Time to look alert. In other words, breakfast time.



Is this a bug I see before me? Come, let me catch thee.

THIS AND THAT (Patricia Potter)

The title of this blog means a little of everything. I’m currently reading – madly – the copy-edited version of “Behind The Shadows,” my April ‘08 book. The publisher’s mailing department misread the “overnight” instructions and sent the manuscript with five-day delivery instead. Unfortunately it turned out to be seven-day delivery because of weekend. The deadline for returning it did not change.

This is the next to my last chance to fix and refine the manuscript. The editor has line-edited and the copy editor has added her particular expertise, and now it’s up to me.

I hate this stage. I know it’s my best chance to make it better, and I’ll spend an hour on one paragraph. Then I get panicked when I add up in my head the time required at spending one hour on every paragraph. I’m taking too much time. Then I fear it’s going to be a terrible book. My career is over, etc., etc.

I know it’s a vital part of the process but it’s the third time I’ve read the almost-finished manuscript,and familiarity breeds contempt. I gave it a read-over after finishing the raw product, another after revisions and this is the third. There will be one more chance to make changes at the proof stage, but the publisher frowns on massive changes then.

Because of the limited time to review this stage of the book, I’m missing the famous Countrywood Garage Sale. I blogged about it last September. It’s a mammoth neighborhood garage sale of some 800 homes plus businesses and area churches. It draws approximately 25,000 people from as many as seven states.

It’s usually great fun, and I always have heroic ambitions. I’m going to get rid of at least twenty of my more than 3,000 and more books. That’s an admirable goal for me. I almost made that goal last year, along with clothes I haven’t worn in twenty years, a thirty-year old typewriter and old suitcases. Because my offering are usually pitiful compared to others, I undercut all my neighbors and offer cokes and bottled water at a ridiculously low price. It’s the fun of the affair rather than any real attempt to make money.

But today, instead, I’ll huddle inside with the manuscript pages and my red pencil and ignore my telephone. I’ll occasionally glance outside and wish I was there talking to all those people wandering about in search of bargains. It’s a carnival atmosphere with homeowners setting up hot dog stands and barbecue pits. There's lemonade stands manned by kids. Ice cream trucks cruise the streets offering treats and music. Neighbors talk and review each other’s junk that might become their treasures. It’s always amazing to me what people will buy.

It’s a great piece of Americana, and I will miss it.

I will especially miss it this year because our weather should be quite grand. We have gone from temperatures hovering around 107 (unusual for Memphis) to 85, and there’s a new spring in my steps. Autumn is always my favorite season. Even the word summons the image of hazy days, pumpkins, changing colors. We in the mid-south usually have a long, lovely fall. Leaves take their picturesque time in changing, and the temperatures drop softly. We’ll have temperatures in the seventies during daylight hours through October and into November. There will be the slightest chill in late October.

But now I have to get back to reading. I hope you all have a great and beautiful fall.

A Sacred Place (LynnK)

Yesterday, members of a cyberspace community called Romex came together for a "Vigil." We do this two or three times a year, usually around the time of a solstice or equinox, feeding into the energy vibrating from the billions of humans who have celebrated the change of seasons.

On this occasion, we chose a day that marked the start of Ramadan, the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, and the World Unity Day of Prayer. Nothing like channeling as much energy as possible! And like the others who participate in our Vigil, I was (as always) energized, weepy, inspired, challenged, and amazed. Mostly, I was grateful to be part of this remarkable community.

Way back in 1991, the infancy of on-line communication for us common people, I invested my meager savings in a hefty two-floppy-disk Leading Edge computer and personally installed a pitiful little modem. That was skin to doing thoracic surgery for a non-techie like me. (And tech stuff hasn’t gotten any easier, sez me who has spent the entire week trying to transition to high-speed cable!) Anyway, the above photo is me with my LE computer, red hair, and fashionable muu-muu. Posting it is an Act of Humility.

Back them I was an isolated would-be writer, desperate for information and like-minded company. I would have walked through fire to join the Genie Romance Exchange. Prodigy had a similar community, and perhaps there were others. But it was Genie that flourished, growing to a home for hundreds of romance writers and becoming influential among writer organizations.

One of my first acts on Romex, once I got up the nerve, was to write a gushy (but sincere) fan letter to the least gushy person I know, Jo Beverley. I still cringe to think of it. I also met, on-line, Alicia Rasley, who remains a close friend. Susan Wiggs became a role model, although I never came near to matching the example she set. Over the years, I have made a great many friends on Romex. We all wish we had more time to spend with one another.

Technology soon bypassed the original group, though. Genie’s Dos-based platform couldn’t access the World Wide Web, and at the turn of the millennium, it vanished into primitive-tech history. By then, membership had dwindled as well. I barely noticed, being tromped on by cancer at the time.

Happily, a few stalwart people (prominent among them, the intrepid Jo Beverley) recognized the value of preserving our community and established a new base of operation for those who remained. Most of us are writers, some unpublished, some NYT Best-Sellers, and all levels in between. We have a few "pure" readers as well, and they help keep us sane.

So do our Vigils. For a 24-hour period, each half-hour adopted by a Romexer, we unite in spirit with our fellows, review the Vigil Requests gathered for our attention, and send prayers/good thoughts/healing energy/rituals/whatever-works-for-us into the Universe. At the end of a session, each of us passes the torch to the next participant.

Ours is an eclectic group . . . to say the least. Not every persuasion is represented, alas, but we’ve got quite a few of them. All sorts of Christians, Wiccans, Jews, Skeptics, Searchers, Atheists, Whatevers. Some speak openly of their faiths or lack there-of. Some don’t. What matters is this: Acceptance. Respect. We value each person for who she is. Nothing sappy about it.

Which is why we can come together for a Vigil. Well, sometimes, some of us get a little sappy as we turn our thoughts and energies to the needs of our sisters. When they post to the Request List, we learn a little about what they are going through with their families, jobs, health, pets, and personal trials. There are Gratitude posts as well, for past requests that have been fulfilled. At times, people open up to their insecurities, fears, hopes, and dreams. We embrace them all.

Some of us have created rituals for our Vigil times. I light three candles. One is white, for peace and healing. One is red, a Saint Michael the Archangel candle, representing my own prayer for truth and justice. And a pale yellow candle honors St. Joseph, patron of workers (and careers). I also set the water to flowing in my fountain and choose music for my session. This morning it was Mozart’s Great Mass in C.

For some reason, after my session was done, I put a funny little image into the fountain and took another picture. It’s a wind-up nun, which Anne Stuart (Sister Krissie) brought to the RWA Conference and told me to keep.

She must have been in my subconscious mind. Later in the day, as I read Romex posts from others taking part in the Vigil, I saw a message from Krissie asking for someone to join her in her evening session. I immediately knew it was supposed to be me and posted that I’d be there. And so I was. By the way, the music was Bach’s Magnificat. Krissie is nothing if not magnificent.

Our psychically attuned members have experiences I cannot imagine. Being an ordinary sod, I just plug away, and sometimes get a little transported by the music and burbling water and candle flames. Mostly, though, I feel grateful for the community we nurture and the trust we share.

As a long-time Romexer put it, we should all recognize "...the importance of creating a sacred space in our lives and going into it for restoration."

Life is Good

These are the bloggers over at bumpinthenightcentral.com, at our Dragon Con booth a couple of weeks ago. Left to right, Maggie Shayne, Angela Knight, Rebecca York, Susan Sizemore, and Susan Kearney. I just got this shot in my email so I thought I'd post it today. And I know I keep mentioning my new group blog on my current group blog site, but that's okay, because i'll be mentioning this one on that one too, and besides, here at Storybroads, "It's all good!"

Today, my friends, life is good. I've had such a busy few weeks lately that it's been a whirlwind, but every bit of it has been fun and wonderful.

Late last week I stayed overnight with daughter #2, Katie. We had pizza and talked half the night and watched Lewis Black, Black on Broadway. I spent time at my grandson's birthday party last weekend, and enjoyed it immensely, though I ate too much! The next day, I headed over to Colorscape Chenango, an annual event in Norwich NY and spent most of the day at the Evening Sun's booth, promoting my new column there, "Shayne on You." (The column will launch the final week of September, and will be viewable at www.evesun.com. I believe that you'll be able to see it without subscribing, at least to begin with.) At the booth I hung out with daughter #3, Jessica, a full fledged journalist at the Evening Sun, along with several other members of the team, and I enjoyed every minute of it, even getting soaked in a merciless deluge at day's end as I ran back to my car.

Tuesday night I had dinner with daughter #4, Stacie, at Applebee's in Binghamton, and then we went to Kohl's and bought tops because they were buy one get one free. We each bought two. I think it's been almost two weeks since I had quality time with daughter #1, Jena. We had a day of shopping not too terribly long ago and a great lunch at Tully's. But I think we're due for another girl's day. I intend to call her this afternoon to plan one.

And tonight, it's Katie's again, for pizza and talking. Friday I'm taking the dogs to the kennel in the morning, getting an oil change in the afternoon, critique group in the evening, and then it's a weekend retreat for some serious R&R.

Yes, life is good. I finished a novella this week, and completed the copy-edits on the latest novel, and got a serious start on the synopsis for the next novel. I'm going to work on that some more today and hope to make major progress.

As busy as life is, I'm enjoying every second of it. So much so that when anything unpleasant tries to insert itself into my existence, I put up walls, act rudely toward it and then turn immediately away from it. I just don't have room in my existence for anything nasty anymore. I really don't.

So I'm just going to be disgustingly upbeat here and tell you how much I love Fall. This is my absolute favorite season. I'd been worrying about my lawn mower being broken, because the lawn was shaggy and I wanted to decorate for Halloween, but not until it was mowed. I'd been trying to solve the problem with action. Poking around in my lawn mower's innards, buying various things and trying them out. I changed the spark plug, air filter, and installed a new battery. It needs an oil change. I found a broken part, took it out and ordered a new one. But none of that was getting my grass cut.

So one day, I sat down in the morning and wrote down my deliberate intentions for the week, which included finishing the novella and copy edits, and my grass being cut. I didn't write "the lawn will be fixed" or "a new lawn mower will appear." Because those were not the goals. Instead I just wrote, "My grass will be cut, my lawn will be mowed."

The next day a neighbor stopped by. This is a fellow who does lots of handy man work for lots of the locals. He saw me working on my mower and asked if I'd like him to mow my lawn before it got too big to deal with. I gratefully accepted. For thirty bucks, he mowed my lawn. I provided the gas, he provided the mower. He brought a local farm boy over with a push mower to do the small parts. The two of them got the weed-whacker that came with the house running and did a lot of the trim work. They even climbed up on the roof of my little barn and took the rooster off the top of the weathervane, and replaced it with my signature witch-on-a-broomstick.

The place looks great! So today, I'm heading out to buy some Halloween decorations to embrace the season. And while I'm out on the road this weekend, you can bet I'll be on the lookout for pumpkins to bring home. I hear there's a new Dremmel Pumpkin Carving took on sale at Lowe's! That's on my list too.

So life is good. And here's one of my secrets. It's actually from Jerry and Esther Hicks and Abraham. They call it the Placemat Exercise because they tend to do it at diners on the back of a paper placemat while on the road. I use a sheet of computer paper.

Take your paper, and draw a line down the center. At the top of one side write ME. At the top of the other side write UNIVERSE.

Under the me side, write down the things you want to get done today (or within the next few days) that you are ready to tackle, and that you believe you can easily accomplish.

Under the Universe side, write down the things you wish would get done today (or within the next few days) that you are not ready to tackle, and have no idea how you'll ever have time to accomplish. Or things that are out of your hands.

Now go about doing the things on your side of the list. Those should include fun things, not just work things. Things you really WANT to do. Don't waste time worrying about the things on the Universe's side of the list, because you've handed those over. They're not your problem. If you focus on not getting them done, not getting them done is what you get. So focus on your stuff, and leave the rest to the universe. Be happy, be joyful, don't stress, just relax, and let it in. And sure as hell, it all gets done. Just like my lawn got mowed. Just like magick.

Try this out and let me know how it goes.

Today, on the me side, I have:
go to the bank
buy Halloween decorations
put them up
go for a run
spend an evening with Katie and the kids


On the Universe's side I have some more time consuming and less fun tasks, like
make significant progress on the synopsis
figure out how to upload some huge photo files to my publicist and do so
print, sign and send a contract and a deposit for a video trailer
go for a run (just in case.)

I bet most, if not all my tasks will get done with time to spare. It always happens that way when I make use of my magic.
It'll work for you too!

Maggie

News From The Small Town (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I don't eat McDonald's hamburgers or french fries. I don't drink their shakes or have chicken sandwiches or desserts. But for years, I had part of a McDonald's bagel for breakfast almost every morning. Not because I needed the bagel. But because McDonald's was the only fast food place close to my daughter's apartment and I drove down to have breakfast with her every morning.

When I moved to this small town six months ago, the hardest part about leaving home was leaving my daughter behind. She's grown. Has a life of her own. She doesn't need her mama buying her breakfast anymore. No, now, her mama needs her. But that's the way it is with kids. They're all in with you, demand every waking brain wave you possess, and then they go away to college and forget to call. It's a natural process. One that completely and totally sucks, in my humble opinion, but still a process that's been in place a lot longer than I have.

Understanding that, I move to this town because this is where life after Rachel has led me and while I'm head over heels in love with my new husband, I still miss that grown up kid. So in the mornings, after my husband goes to work, I take myself the few blocks to McDonald's and order my bagel and diet coke and linger as long as I can over my few bites of bagel, remembering. Loving.

And then, just a few weeks after I arrived, I drive by McDonald's one day and the place is gone. That's right. Just gone. My shock was so great this is actually the second time I've blogged about it! But this week, on Monday at 11 am to be exact, McDonald's re-opened. It's on the same property, but the building is brand new. Much larger. More modern than the twenty-five year old structure that was demolished. It's back.

I was so relieved, comforted by this, that I almost had dinner there last night! As some kind of reverent thank you for not deserting me. I didn't. I still don't eat McDonald's hamburgers and french fries. But I seriously considered it. Funny how some things are a comfort just because they are.

There was a robbery in town yesterday. Everyone says the perp had to be an out of towner. I wonder about that. Do they honestly think that no one in their town is bad? Or is just that, in a small town where everyone knows everyone else, they'd know who dun it if he was from here? My husband says that if he were from here, he'd have known better than to rob the place he did. He'd have gotten away with a lot more money if he'd hit one of any number of other places.

And...my construction skills have improved. I helped lay the porch floor on Sunday. Really helped. I was in charge of all the screws in the framing. Screwing them, not handing them. After that I laid boards. And then...new skill alert!!!...I learned how to use the nail gun. Now those things are cool. Beyond cool. It's kind of big and I thought it would be too heavy for me to manouver but I have this habit of underestimating myself. I love to shoot guns. Have been getting quite a bit of practice at it this summer up at our cabin (but that's another story) and now I can shoot guns and build things at the same time. And there's something eminently satisfying about that little air filled kick back when you pull the trigger and a nail is embedded completely in the wood. I could put in three nails in five seconds. I'm thinking this bodes well for that bathroom that has to be built on the new house before Thanksgiving.

The second book in my Ivory Nation trilogy, Behind Closed Doors, is coming out at the end of this month. It's a suspense/thriller about a couple of victims of white supremacists. It's set in Tucson, Arizona and I'm thinking the subject matter is as far away from this small town as I am from my daughter. Think again. I overheard some conversation last week. There's a group, similar to the KKK, that meets right in the next town. Some folks from this town attend meetings. Just goes to show you that the only thing small about a small town is the idea that opportunities are limited.

I met the mayor. He was my husband's little league coach. A few years ago. He told us that the city has allocated the money for a sidewalk and curb to be put along the street where we just bought our new/old house. The sidewalk will connect that street to the bike/rollerblading path that runs from the new high school outside of town all the way downtown. It's like this little town provided specifically for my needs! I know it didn't, of course. But then, why not? Isn't that how life works? If we listen to our hearts and act upon what we find there, the universe finds a way, people to work through, to give us what we need.

There's a lock box on our house. We listed it for sale this week. The realtor said he'd give us our combination if we wanted him to. Everyone in the business has it. I'm wondering why, in this small town, we don't just put a key under the mat.

But then, there was that robbery...

Guess I'll head off to McDonald's for a few bites of breakfast. Tell me, does anyone else have comforts like this? Or am I just a closet McDonald's addict and don't know it???

The Only Way to Remodel (Suzanne Forster)

Never. Just don’t do it. That would be my best advice on the subject, and I speak from what I suppose could be called bitter experience. Now, I know you’re thinking this blog is about the horrors of remodeling, and yes, I could write a blog about that. I could write a book about that. But what I really want to talk about is the joys of not remodeling, or better yet, if you’ve already started, the joys of not finishing.

Now the truth can be told. You don’t have to finish your remodeling project. In fact, you shouldn’t. I’m almost tempted to suggest that if you haven’t started a remodeling project, you should—and then leave it unfinished. Why? I’ll tell you that in minute, but before I confess my sordid remodeling secrets—and make my relatives very angry at me—a little history.

We started the “project” about fifteen years ago. It got interrupted by several things, some of them more serious than others: the stock market crash, my elderly mom’s lingering illness, and many many many book deadlines. We did manage to get most of the big and really costly stuff done before the crash. The decks were expanded, all the closets were reorganized, the bathrooms redone, upstairs and down, and the entire kitchen torn limb from limb and put reconstructed, beautifully, I must say, except there isn’t a towel rack anywhere. Nowhere to hang a towel in that gorgeous new kitchen, not even a hook? Who designed that room? Can you say Home Depot? Enough said. This is not a blog on decorating nightmares.

Oh, and we had the windows hung with Silhouette blinds, the ones made of sheer silky fabric that turn the outside light blush pink. Lovely things. They’ve never worked right, but they are lovely. So, with most of the big stuff done, that only left carpeting, painting and new furniture—and that’s where we got stopped.

Fifteen years later, we have yet to get the place re-carpeted and repainted. Well, that’s not true. We did repaint the interior several years ago, but now it’s time to do it again. And we have picked up some new furniture here and there, like the dining room table we recently bought because my brainstorming group (of very patient writer buddies) got tired of eating off their laps.

Actually, for years I was depressed, down and dejected—or thought I was—about not having my house finished. I dreamed of a showplace, all fabulously redesigned, refurbished, and feng-shui’d. I was blue about not having a place to entertain and have company over, especially a guest bedroom for visiting relatives. Now, after close to a decade of relative-free years, I’ve seen the error of my ways.

Actually, we could finish the “project” now, although I know I’m going to regret admitting that. My mom has gone on better things, as she would put it, the market’s picked up again, and my deadlines aren’t stacked up like pancakes. Yes, we could finish.

Let me tell you all the reasons we aren’t going to do it.

First, remodeling is the perfect excuse for letting everything, except whatever it is you want—or have—to do, go totally to hell in a handbasket. This comes in very handy when you’re on a book deadline, writing 24-7, and struggling to schedule in bathroom breaks, much less housecleaning or entertaining.

Really, no one expects anything of you when you’re remodeling. You can’t throw holiday parties. You can’t host the visiting relatives. And no one can accuse you of being a bad housekeeper.

No matter what condition your house is in, you have an excuse. “Oh, sorry about that bathroom door hanging off the hinges. We’re remodeling.” “It is a little messy in here, isn’t it? We’re remodeling.” “Just put those things anywhere. We’re remodeling.” “The toilet doesn’t work? We’re …”

Well, you get the picture. And the advantages don’t end there. If you clean out and convert the spare bedroom, you’ll lose a wonderful storage room.

As I already mentioned, relatives can’t drop in on you when you’re on deadline, expecting to stay for awhile, whatever that vague term means. People tend to do this to southern Californians. I believe it’s because of the proximity of Disneyland. Everyone in my family believes Disneyland is in our backyard, yet with today’s traffic, we’re a good hour away from the Magic Kingdom. That does not discourage them for one second. A house with no guestroom does.

I’m sure I don’t have you tell you about the time and money you save by not finishing. No contractors to relocate you and your entire family while they’re doing major, horrifically expensive, work. And you can pour all that extra money into cars and computer equipment. (The dh likes this one.)

You don’t have to redecorate every few years because the styles have changed. Phooey on feng shui. Nobody will remember it by the time I get around to finishing this place.

If you should ever want to sell the house, you won’t have to “stage” it, which requires carting all your personal treasures down to the basement so the house will look spacious. Your personal treasures are already boxed up in basement, and have been since you started the “project” years ago.

In case of a divorce, there’s less of a fight for the house. Who wants “that” place?

Also, our cat is not traumatized by being shooed off the new furniture. She can sleep anywhere she darn well pleases—and does. And if she wants to scratch a chair arm. Well, no great loss. We’ll be getting new furniture … one of these decades.

Oh, and by the way, buying new furniture should be done with great caution. Yes, I have a lovely new dining room set, but what’s really changed? Well, I feel compelled to cook and serve things on it, that’s what. You see the problem?

When you have a beautiful new home, you must use it, show it off, invite people over, entertain. ::::quiver:::: I think it’s possible I may suffer from an entertaining phobia, and I’m not sure there’s a cure, but not finishing the “project” is a great Bandaid.

And meanwhile, I did come up with a clever (some might call it sneaky) alternative. If I absolutely have to have a place for relatives to stay, I can always suggest they trek on up to the family condo in Olympia, which isn’t finished either. The excuse there is that it’s a second home, and who ever finishes those. Also, if I feel inclined to have company, I can get it out of my system while I’m up there. The place actually has a functional guest bedroom and a loft. Hey, I could have all the relatives at once!

So, what to do? This is a moment of truth for the Forsters. We’re actually contemplating finishing the “project” and I’m trying to figure out how drastically our lives would change if we were to dare go through with it. I might have to entertain and the dh might have to stop buying cars and Mandy, the cat, would almost certainly be relegated to her cat tree by the window. No way would she be allowed to sleep on mom’s brand new luxury bedspread.

Hm, I think I know which way Mandy’s going to vote.

Suz

Bookstores, Big and Small

I talked about libraries last week, about my beloved childhood library and it's magnificent behemoth reincarnation. So this week let's talk about bookstores.
Anyone see You've Got Mail? Tom Hanks as a mega-bookstore owner, Meg Ryan as the owner of a tiny, gorgeous little children's bookstore. Tom Hanks puts her out of business, they get married anyway, and Jenny Crusie insists she'll wake up one night and stab him.
I would.
There's a lot to be said for all kinds of bookstores. My favorite small one is nearby -- the Galaxy Bookshop in Hardwick, Vermont. Linda Ramsdell, the owner, bought the old bank and filled it with books -- there are overstuffed chairs to curl up in, the best children's section you could find, and inside the old vault are puzzles and games. She even kept the drive up window for drive by story-telling.
There's Bear Pond Books in Montpelier, a rabbit warren of books and treasures. And the late, lamented Northern Lights bookstore in St. Johnsbury, which even had a cafe.
What do these stores have in common? They're small, they're cozy, they're friendly. And if they didn't know I lived here, they wouldn't carry my books. (Bear Pond still doesn't).
Which is neither here nor there. I can go in and find treasures, a great ambiance, people who love to read. I just can't find my books, but then, I already have them.

Then there are the big boxes. Barnes and Noble and Borders. Which frankly, I love as well. They're mainly staffed by people who don't have a clue about books, and while they try to have a homey atmosphere it's a far cry from the Galaxy. But they have an absolute abundance of books -- quilt books, history books, tarot cards, all the mass market genre fiction you could possibly want. Plus free wireless internet in the better cafes. What more could you ask for?
Oooh, and the magazines. I'm a magazine junkie -- I spend a small fortune on them, and you can find almost anything.

Then there's Amazon the Great. You can't actually leaf through the books, see if they're what you want, but by god they have everything you could possibly want and more. Yes, you can get iDogs and video games and clothes and all sorts of other things. But you can also find every single book in the world.

And last but not least, there's the poor stepchild, the used book store. Many writers hate them, but it's hard to hate a place where people love reading so much. The best booksignings I've ever done have been at new-and-used bookstores -- people just love writers and love to read. I won't waste time describing the stark horror of a big box signing, or the pity booksignings at the Galaxy. At used bookstores people bring in grocery bags of well loved books of mine, and whether they bought them new or used, whether I made money or not, they were read and loved.

Years ago I was at BEA (Booksellers Expo of America) at a booth sponsored by RWA. We were there to present a positive front for romance, and hundred of booksellers walked by, as skittish as a customer at a booksigning. Until one slight pompous young man decided to swagger up to us, look at our material, and say, "I don't carry these books in my bookstore. I only carry books I like."
And I batted my eyes, looked up at him sweetly and said "you must have a very small store."

Turned him apoplectic. One must have one's small triumphs.

So, the bottom line is, there's room for all of my favorites. For the Galaxy, with its ambiance and it's wonderful children's books and a really thoughtful inventory in such a small place.

For B&N and Borders, with the overwhelming vastness of the places and ohmygod the magazines.

For Amazon, where you can find absolutely anything and get it the next day if you're on a deadline and can't drive 70 miles to the nearest big box.

And used bookstores, where they love you. Where you can take a chance on a new to you author or find out of print glories.

So what's your favorite bookstore? Mine are a toss-up between the Galaxy and Borders in Princeton and Barnes and Noble in Burlington, VT. Oh, and of course Kinokuniya in New York and Seattle and Sydney.

Tell me what you love.

The Perfection of Us All

Saint Francis and the Sow

The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
or everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath
them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Galway Kinnell

My New World/Patricia Potter

There’s always a trepidation as well as excitement in building a new world and populating it with people of your imagination.

I’m embarking on that journey again this month. I’m in the midst of writing a synopsis for my next suspense.

It’s an interesting process. I start with no more than an idea and one or two characters, then start tinkering. Sometimes it just develops in a day. Those are really, really good days.

Other times it takes a week or so, then more time tinkering.

I swore after the last book I would write a simpler one this time around. Maybe a mass murderer, maybe an elegant burglary. Maybe a simple murderous husband. But my idea – anything but simple – simply wouldn’t go away. It’s a story that wants to be told.

I wouldn’t even worry about a synopsis if my publisher didn’t insist upon one. The final product never resembles it, in any case. At some point in the story, the characters simply take over and do their own thing. A bad guy wants to be a good guy. The good guy’s tired of being a hero. “Make me more complicated,” he pleads.

The ending is never what I expected. Plot points change. New characters walk on stage for one reason or another. A turning point doesn’t work.

But the editor wants the synopsis, and it IS a framework. The structure might change from cottage into a castle but there’s a framework.

First the basic plot. An idea. No more than that. A woman whose mother needs a kidney. But what happens when she takes the requisite tests and discovers she is not the blood daughter she always thought she was? What if her journey to discover who she really is and find the real daughter in hopes of an organ donation she discovers several pasts filled with secrets, deceit and murder.

That’s it. Now where do I go from there?

People first. Characters that intrigue. That readers will care about.

Names first. Out come the baby books. I have a new one that separates them by country of origin. Need a Spanish name? It’s there. Norwegian. Yep.
German? Just turn the page.

Seeking out just the right ones is a challenge. Names immediately create an image in the reader’s mind. Strength. Weakness. Good. Bad. I’ll cite only one for fear of offending someone, and that’s Jud from Oklahoma. I don’t know too many people named Jud, so perhaps I’m safe there, but you get the idea. I love Alex, for instance. Maybe because of a hero in a book long ago. I think of strength when I see Alex. But I’ve had too many Bens and Alexes, so the search for the exact right name continues for two days.

The name must wear well. My new heroine is Kira.. Came from the baby name book. The instant I saw it, I knew it was right for her. It means “light” and she radiates it, though she certainly has her faults. Her hero, I think, is Max. Or it might be Ty? I have two heroes in this book, and I’‘m not quite sure who will end up with Kira and who with the woman who turns out to be her mother’s blood daughter.

It’ll be a two romance book. Two heroines. Two heroes. I wrote another two-in- one book,“Broken Honor,” and it was great fun. When I ran into a road block with one character, I jumped to the other. When I finished that scene, I'd usually worked out the problem with the prior scene. I didn’t sit there for two weeks trying to figure out where to do next.

Okay. I have my characters. I need a dog. I always have an animal in my books. I can’t truly empathize with a character who doesn’t like animals. I’ve had everything from a monkey named Socrates to ferrets to a rescue parrot, but mostly cats and dogs. I think this one will be Archie. Has to be a rescue dog of undetermined origins.

Now onto the intricacies of the plot. But maybe that’s a topic for another day. For now, I’m happy. I have my characters. I have my first sentence. I’m ready to roll.

eek of Frustration (LynnK)

The title has a typo. It was supposed to be Week of Frustration, but some inner primal scream must have misdirected my fingers. Well, that or the fact I’m a lousy two-finger typist.

Anyhow, it’s been one of those weeks. You’ve had them. No real crises. We rise to those and deal with them because we must. Just an onrush of maddening delays, miscommunication, incompetence (my own included) and the normal vicissitudes of life suddenly piling it on.

For one thing, when forced to deal with technology–which I love, by the way–I’m like one of those tiny dogs that shakes uncontrollably. The panic of inevitable screw-ups sets in. Of course I start with the easy stuff. But when something I do actually works, I’m all the more apprehensive. The devious computer/phone/printer/whatever is leading me on. Taunting me. Getting ready to dish up a real disaster.

Which is why the laptop I bought in January is still waiting in the wings. Or it was until last week, when my lust to download music and watch videos on YouTube finally overwhelmed me. I got a few programs loaded into Vista in preparation for a life-changing event. Then, after tracking down a good deal, I made arrangements for an upgrade to high-speed cable.

This was supposed to be a joy. A gift to myself after sixteen years of sloth-slow dial-up. Earthlink said the cable company would call to arrange installation, a couple hours later it did, and they agreed to come work their magic on Monday morning. Could it be that all would proceed smoothly?

Har!

Since that phone call, I’ve received nine or ten emails from the cable company requesting that I use the online service to set up an appointment. The form won’t accept a note saying I already have an appointment. Any deviation from strict form format sparks an error message. The form also instructs me to choose Standard Installation for a hefty fee or pay a heftier fee for Deluxe Installation. What the heck does that mean? A designer cable? They send a hunky guy? Besides, my installation is supposed to be free.

I found an email address to contact the cable company with actual prose, but no response as yet. And tonight I came home to a garbled phone message: "gibbeldy cable gobbeldy time scheduldy" etc. for several minutes, followed by a phone number to call.

I didn’t call. That’s because I was in a Bad Mood after trying to get an oil change for my car this afternoon. Turns out the dealer isn’t where it used to be, nor in the fancy new digs where it will reopen next week. It’s in temporary quarters, but they hadn’t bothered to tell me! After a nightmare search in maddening traffic, I did find the place in time to keep my appointment. But it was twenty minutes before anyone wrote up the order, and I was told the wait would be an hour and a half.

That’s how the week has gone. I won’t bore you with further tales of woe. Whining is so unbecoming. This morning I will assume the role of pleasant, reasonable customer and call Time Warner Cable. I will finish setting up the new computer. I will go to water aerobics and beat out my aggressions in chlorinated cardio-bursts. Then I will come home, open a bottle of wine, and regret posting this whimpering blog.

Unless you all add your own tales of woe to mine. My misery could use some company!

Update: Earthlink called this morning to see if all was well. Offered to contact Time Warner for clarification. Yay!

UpdateII: Spoke with a Time Warner agent, aka twit. They don't know nuthin 'bout no emails. They say I have an appointment. Yay...er, not Yay. It's not for the day and time I was told. Shorter TW: "This is the day and time. Either you misunderstood, or you made a change on-line. All your fault."

The supervisor is supposed to call this afternoon. I'm not holding my breath. (And I'm recounting this epic nuisance for the sake of those who also suffer from corporate incompetence. Which is just about all of you! Let's fight back. Politely, of course.)

UpdateIII: The supervisor did not call. Contain your astonishment. Time Warner ("Not our fault!") Cable is now blaming the change of installment dates (without telling me) on "The Phone People." Is that like the Pod People? Grade so far, Earthlink A-, TWC D-. We'll see if anyone shows up on Wednesday.

UpdateIV: The fun continues. An email arrived in the wee hours today (Sunday) from TimeWarner Cable. It says, "We have not heard from you and will cancel your order within 24 hours if you do not schedule an installation appointment.' Of course, TimeWarner is closed on Sundays.

Dragon Con 2007

As you can see, I worked my butt off at Dragon Con last weekend. The photographic evidence of my tireless efforts at networking and promoton are obvious here, and I even deigned to associate with the Spartans, if you can believe that. ;)

Seriously, if you are a fan of science fiction, fantasy, paranormal themed, novels, comic books, super heroes, video games, artwork, television, film, costuming, or just about anything else having to do with the supernatural, you simply MUST go to Dragon Con!

I spent last weekend at this amazing convention, which is held every year in Atlanta, at the Atlanta Hyatt, Marriot Marquis, and the Hilton. Yes, all three, and all three hotels, which take up two city blocks each, are booked completely and solely for Dragon Con events and guests. More than 50,000 people generally attend, and this year I heard there were 30% more than last, so that's a plus. There are exhibit booths, artist's booths, vendor's booths, where you can learn about and buy products from books to swords to collectible figurines to Hollywood quality costuming. There are a constant stream of workshops and lectures and discussions for fans and aspiring artists alike. There are constant booksignings and readings by authors, and autographings by celebs on the Walk of Fame. There's a masquerade ball, a "Dawn" (Dragon Con's cartoon mascott) lookalike contest, and a giant parade that closes down the streets of Atlanta for more than an hour on Saturday morning.

The celebs present filled pages and pages in the program, but I was most impressed with the presence of James Marsters (Spike,) Kevin Sorbo (Hercules,) Ron Glass (Detective Harris from Barney Miller, and The Shepherd from Firefly/Serenity), and Nichelle Nichols (Lt. Uhura, Star Trek). I was actually signing books in the same room where these stars were signing photos. Pretty cool.

And actually, I did work very hard all weekend long, both delivering workshops, doing a reading and an autographing, and manning the booth set up by my fellow authors Susan Kearney, Susan Sizemore, Rebecca York, Angela Knight, and me for our soon to be launched blog site, Bump In the Night Central. (Mary Jo Putney will also be joining us at BumpinthenightCentral.com but she couldn't make it to Dragon Con this year.) Here's a shot of our booth, with its professional looking banner. We had a promotional video running in a loop on our television, and we gave away two trunks full of autographed copies and other goodies. We passed out tons of bookmarks, met hundreds of people. I had a lot of fans at Dragon Con, and I was pleasantly surprised by that.

Honest, though, it was hard work. I was staying in the Hyatt, where the lectures and workshops were held. The booksignings were in the Marriot, and our booth was in the Hilton. I was running back and forth constantly. And you know, you like to look good at these things, but after day one, heels were just out of the question. I didn't wear a costume. It seems mostly the domain of the fans, though I saw some great ones.
And while I did pause just long enough to take some pics as I passed through the lobby, or get one taken with the great costumes that passed by our booth, and for an hour to watch the parade, that was it. The rest of the time I was really hard at work. But in a fun way. I love meeting people and giving things away.

On a personal level, the weekend was a step up for me. First, because I got to spend some time with my publicist, Shannon Aviles, and get to know her better, and also with some women I haven't spent nearly enough time with up to now. I think Susan Kearney and I have bonded for life. The entire experience gave me a new drive toward the promotional side of the business, as I saw what other people are doing and how well it is working for them. This getting out there and meeting people stuff is better than I ever realized, and in a venue like this one, where they're all together in one place, it's even better.

Also, because it was the first time I tried the new kennel for the dogs, and when I came home, they were happy. They'd been bathed and they were spunky, glad to see me, and looking none the worse for wear. The kennel people had even laundered Wrinkles' blanket. I popped them in the car and fed them the beef jerky I'd bought for them at the gas station, cause I felt guilty and they didn't have doggie treats there. When I got them home and gave them food and water, they didn't seem overly hungry or thirsty at all. They had clearly been outside often, since they didn't need a bathroom break all the way home. The price was remarkably reasonable. So despite that The Boarding Barn is 50 miles from my house, it's worth it. And the dogs love the ride anyway. I've already booked them for my Arizona trip, the weekend of September 22nd.

I admit, I'm not a great traveler. While I love love love flying, I hate being away from home. I was so happy when I pulled back into my driveway that I had tears in my eyes. Same thing when I picked up the dogs. Same thing when the plane touched down at Hancock Airport in Syracuse. I felt like Dorothy waking up in her little farmhouse after her trip over the rainbow. I'm always like that about getting back home, but that's a good thing, in truth. I have a home I love in a town I love around people I love, and leaving them makes me miss them and want to come back.

So yeah, Arizona next, and you can read what I'm doing there over at the public appearance section of my website as soon as I update it. (Should be over the weekend.) Short version is I'll be in Scottsdale from Saturday through Tuesday, flying back Tuesday afternoon. I'll be speaking at the Harlequin Enterprises Sales & Marketing Conference. My BFF MIchele is going with me, and we intend to really see some sights in the time allowed. I should come back with lots of pictures again, so the final blog of this month will proof interesting, I'll bet. More travel tales to share. And unlike Atlanta, in Scottsdale I WILL get out of the hotel and experience the culture and geography of Arizona, which I know I'm going to love.

I'll also be at the Evening Sun booth at Colorscape Chenango in Norwich NY this Saturday, though I'm not sure yet what time, and I have an autographing, also in Norwich, at the First Edition bookstore at 5 PM on Thursday, September 20th.

Okay, so that's it for now. The OFFICIAL on sale date for MOON FEVER is September 25th. Look for it!

Best,
Maggie

Signs (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I was rollerblading once with a friend. We were in the middle of one of our weekly marathon sessions (three or so hours reserved for Saturday mornings) and somehow got into one of those deep, what's life about, conversations. (I tend to find myself in those types of conversations on a pretty much continual basis.) Anyway I segued from her comment about having faith, to looking for signs to guide us. Not because we were lost but because we didn't want to miss something, a turn, a choice. Her response to my comment is still with me five years later. She was horrified. And sympathetic. She felt sorry for me that I had to live my life trying to see signs when, really, all I had to do was have faith and all would be as it should be.

I like her theory. It's clean. Mostly worry free. And probably true.

And yet...

What will I miss along the way if I ignore the signs? I mean, when I get the sniffles, I see that as a sign that I'm getting a cold and I load up on Vitamin C and then I don't get really sick. I could just have faith that I won't get sick. And maybe, if I had enough of it, I wouldn't. But I guess I don't because if I don't take the Vitamin C I get really sick and then I miss days of my life while I lie on the couch unable to form a coherent thought because of the fog in my brain.

My honey and I were traveling this weekend. We knew the roads to take to get where we were going. No need to look at signs. I said an intense prayer that we get there safely. I had faith that we would. But I read signs anyway. I could have made it home without them. Home safely. But I read. And saw a notice about a flea market. We turned around. Pulled in. And I found the most exquisite little crystal box - two of them actually. One was heart shaped and something that I've been looking for for a couple of years. I wanted it for my bedroom. The ones I'd found were never quite ornate enough, and were far too expensive. And right beside that little crystal heart box was another box - in an intricate, beautiful butterfly configuration. Both boxes were old. And perfect. I checked carefully for nicks, chips, scratches. There were none. And then, prepared to pay dearly, I searched out the cost of these treasures.

Seventy-five cents a piece. Yeah. That's right. That's what the sign said. Seventy-five cents. With great care I picked them up. Looked at them again. I'd have tasted them if there'd been an appropriate way to do so. They're with me here now, my two precious finds. For $1.50. I thought about them all the way home, feeling gifted and lucky and just plain happy. I could have been just fine without them. I wouldn't have known that I'd missed them. But I read that little sign and look what added depth I received!

Last night we watched Bruce Almighty. An old movie, I know, but somehow I'd missed it. It's a Jim Carey movie and typical Jim, who I happen to like so that was just fine. The entire movie was about seeing the signs in life. Bruce didn't. And he blamed God. Who came down in the form of Morgan Freeman to give Bruce his 'job.' As could have been expected, Bruce (Jim) proceeds over the next week to use God's powers, his powers now, to right all the things he thought had gone wrong in his life - you know sabotaging the guy who got his job, making his woman burn with desire for him, that kind of thing. And, of course, finds himself in a world of hurt. Throughout the movie, just kind of interspersed with what was really going on, was this homeless guy who painted lopsided words on old pieces of cardboard and spent his days standing on the street holding them up. They were misspelled little messages that were there for comedic effect. Or were they? In the end you see that if Bruce had only read that sign, he'd have been spared every bit of unhappiness he'd experienced.

But then, I had this garden...I've talked about it before. I'd had it tilled, I'd dug and weeded and raked and planted my favorite plants from home in Arizona. I hauled out the hose and watered them daily. And then I went away for two weeks. When I got home my garden was so overgrown with weeds that were over my head that not only couldn't I see my plants, but I couldn't even see the bird bath fountain or any other of my stone ornaments. I somehow became certain that this garden was a sign to me. If I cleaned out those weeds, if I put forth the effort to free my plants and ornaments, to expose them to sunshine and air, to care for them, then I would be reunited with my daughter. I worked for days, in 95 degree heat. And by spotlight, I worked well past dark a night or two. I was advised to let it go. To stop. To admit I couldn't get it done. And then, as days passed, I was encouraged to continue. I finally finished, digging out the last weed, late at night the night before I was due to leave on a trip to Arizona. I'd done it. I couldn't believe it. My mother, who was there at the end, believed. My husband believed. And so, renewed by my own certainty that that garden had been a sign, I set off on my trip. The results couldn't have been worse. And now, as I'm back home just two weeks later, that garden is once again covered in weeds. They're much smaller now. Merely little spurts of green in the weed-killing-treated mulch I'd put down. My plants are all healthy and grown and flowering and beautiful. All of the ornaments glow with beauty. But the weeds are there. Is this another sign? Or am I merely making myself insane with it all?

Back on my road trip. Tim and I are on a mission to make up for the thirty years we missed with each other. We squeeze every moment out of every day - often talking long into the night, or into the times when we should really be getting things done. In that vein, we left for home much later than we'd planned on Sunday. We'd been in our cabin, getting ready to leave, and somehow got on this discussion that found us on the couch, deeply engaged and two hours got away from us. We talked about giving up the antiquing we'd been planning to do on the way home. And definitely giving the casino in Mount Pleasant a miss. And less than ten miles down the road stopped at our first antique shop. We recalculated and figured that as long as we were home by two a.m. we'd get enough sleep to be productive the next day. That gave us twelve hours to make a six hour drive. And we'd have made it, too, except that we'd been so busy listening to the new music we'd stopped and bought that we missed a sign. And ended up in a loop of country roads that all led to nowhere. Two a.m. passed. And then two-thirty and were traveling the direction we needed to go but getting nowhere. We should have been an hour from home, but couldn't find any towns that were familiar. Or any towns that had even so much as a gas station opened. They were all small little villages with no sign of life in the dark of the night. Tim wanted to drive down the main street of one such town at eighty miles an hour blowing the horn just so we might find a policeman to guide us. All we needed was one sign telling us which way to go to reach a major small town. Or to guide us to a country highway that we could find on the map. By 3:30 I called in the big guns - asking the angels for help - and within minutes this huge semi pulled around a corner on a street barely big enough for our Ford Explorer. We had to back up to make room for him. And the trucker leaned out the window and called to us as he passed. Tim rolled down his window. The man was lost. Wondered if we could help him. Unfortunately we could not, but he told us that he'd just come from the two lane country highway we were looking for. He gave us directions that weren't completely accurate, but they led us to a sign that led us home.

I guess the thing is, we can choose to be directed, or not. We can choose to see or not. We risk mis-reading. Missing period. So much of the time we miss what's right in front of us because we want more specific signs. Like that middle of the night circling. We knew we were going the right direction. If we'd just kept going we'd have found the signs we needed much sooner. Instead we detoured into every little town trying to find the sign that was waiting for us just outside town. And yet, without the signs, we'd miss so much more.

Unless, of course, I just suffer from a lack of faith that would make all clear anyway. What do you think?

A Few Favorite Conspiracy Theories (Suzanne Forster)

The Helpless Male Conspiracy:

Why can’t men find anything? Okay, maybe not all men, but over the years, I’ve had personal experience with several who couldn’t find their nose if it wasn’t attached to their face. (I cleaned that up for this post, lol). My father, my brother, my current husband and my son.
Here’s a short list of things men can’t find. First, the obvious: Their socks, their glasses, their underwear, their car and house keys, any paper work that’s essential for an IRS audit, any and all items of clothing at one time or another, and of course, their children.

I’ve heard stories of men losing their tuxedoes on their wedding day, and worse the ring. How often does that happen? My husband also loses his wallet on a regular basis. Once he set it on top of the car while he was doing something else, forgot the wallet, got in the car and drove to work. He denies it, but I have witnesses. And naturally, he never has the wallet when it comes to paying for the groceries at the checkout, so guess who gets to use her credit card, which is a separate account from his, thanks to Suze Orman’s financial advice?

You guys, you’re all in it together, aren’t you.

The Expensive Pee Conspiracy: Are those pricy health food supplements really worth the money? The ads promise Nirvana in a bottle: good health, good brain power, good hair, teeth and nails, good sex, and so on. I know about the promises because I use all of the supplements. When did I get suspicious that they might not be living up to their hype? Sadly, when I looked in the mirror—and years later, continue to look. But, the real clincher? When the clerk at the health food store murmured a few cogent words as she checked me out. “Oh, my, expensive pee.”

She happily explained that most of the supplements don’t get absorbed and are excreted in the urine. And she works for the store. Or did. Funny that she wasn’t there the next time I checked out.

The Auto Shop Things To Do Next Conspiracy: Have you ever noticed at the bottom of the bill from the auto shop there’s a fear-inspiring list called Things to Do Next. What’s that all about? Talk about self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t like the idea that as they’re peering into the bowels of my car (in this case, the 1990 Honda I inherited from my mom), supposedly fixing whatever brought the car to them, they’re already plotting and planning what they’re going to be fixing next. Why didn’t they fix the problem when they saw it instead of making a list—or at least call and tell me what they found?

Let me give you an example: At the very bottom of the potential problems listed from my last trip to the shop with mom’s car was the most ominous of the bunch: Leaking brake fluid. No one mentioned this when I picked up the car. What? They let me drive out of there with leaking brake fluid? I had a one-hour trip on the freeway that night. Would I have enough brake fluid to get there and back? What happens when you run out of brake fluid? No brakes? That doesn’t sound like a good idea on the freeway at 70 miles an hour.

I called from my cell, and they said not to worry, it was a slow leak. Did I worry? Yes! Did I take the car back the next day and get the brakes fixed. You betcha.

The Microsoft Operating System Conspiracy (AKA Vista): As I write this, Microsoft continues to get its bottom sued off in class-action suits all across the country. I recently got a voucher for $217 from the proceeds of such a suit against Microsoft. I had no idea I was part of the suit, and I wish they’d sent me a check rather than a voucher, because the only way I was allowed to use the voucher was as reimbursement for purchasing new electronic equipment. (Are you starting to see the sneaky wisdom of this settlement deal?)

What I bought was a new Sony laptop computer complete with, of course, Microsoft’s new Vista operating system. Pretty smart of Microsoft to pay me off with a voucher that requires I buy new electronic equipment, eh? So, let me see, how does this work? They’re being sued for monopolistic practices, and I get to give my small piece of the settlement pie back to them by buying more of their stuff. Hm, smell a conspiracy here?

It gets worse. I’m told Vista doesn’t play well with other programs, and I’m pretty sure AOL is one of them. I’m getting interesting messages these days almost every time I try to visit a Web site, any Web site, even my own. It goes this way: Navigation to this Web site has been canceled. That’s it. No whys, whats or wherefores. Imagine my excitement as I try to do research for the current book or buy naughty things on-line. I can’t tell you how much fun I had just getting to blogger.com this morning to post this baby.

I probably shouldn’t even mention the conspiracy theories that come to mind because of these navigation problems, but one of them has to do with the raging turf wars among the electronic behemoths. Let’s just say that it’s easier to part ways with AOL than with Vista, and I’m already looking for another browser.

I have many more theories, including my latest: The Car Dealership Don’t-Let-Them-Off-the-Lot Conspiracy, but I may actually turn that one in a thriller novel, so I probably shouldn’t give away the plot.

Please, tell me I’m not the only one. I’ll bet some of you have had experience with these conspiracies or maybe you have one of your very own to share? Be my guest. You know what they say about misery loving company . . . unless . . . that’s some kind of conspiracy too?

Suz

Libraries I Have Known

I'm down in Princeton, where I grew up, after driving my 93 year old mother back home, and I went to the spanking new library to try to work on my killer deadline. It was gorgeous. Hi-tech -- banks of computers, rows of DVDs, private conference/workrooms you could sign up for, dozens of comfortable chairs to curl up in to read or write. Three floors and an elevator, and the librarian is the current president of the ALA (or so mother tells me). Awe-inspiring. It's got a third floor terrace with a fish tank for the kids, a wall of tiny tiles, and it's a thing of new-age beauty.

But ... with all its fabulous facilities, I don't know if it will ever have the soul of the first library I loved. Princeton Public Library was in a very old house next to the movie theatre, and it had nooks and crannies, winding stairs, opera LPs, fireplaces, and quirky little annexes (or however you make annex plural) which held fiction and mysteries on the second floor (where I got my Dorothy L. Sayers and my P.G.Wodehouse) , biographies on the first.
My favorite place, eventually, was the young adult room on the right as you walked in. I can still remember exactly where to go for the Lorna Hill Sadlers Wells books, the Sally Watsons, the Eloise Jarvis McGraws, the Elizabeth George Speares. And hundreds of others. Books kept me alive, fed my soul, and, for good or ill, made me who I am today. The old Princeton Public Library was a sanctuary and a temple, a holy place that I still remember with love and gratitude.

I don't know if the glorious new Princeton Public Library will provide the same kind of safe haven for dreamy young girls that the old one did. They don't carry my books, so at least they're keeping old ladies from having heart attacks (though my mother survives reading them just fine). I hope the glorious new library can do what the quirky old one did. Even without the musty smell.

Do you guys have a memory of a beloved library? At least, while the old bookstores are being swallowed up by big boxes, we still have the old libraries. And in the end, I guess I'd rather have a gorgeous new library that gave me more books to read than one with endearing charm.

Labor Day Weekend Cat Blogging . . .

. . . because a cat's work is never done. Mostly because it's never begun. They don't care much about grammar, either. Or spelling.



http://www.icanhascheezburger.com

The Western Comeback (Patricia Potter)

I’m sorry to be late with my blog. A particularly nasty bug has knocked me out for the last two days, wiping from my head any rational thought. Add to that a sick mother and a sick senior citizen dog, and my mind is fogged. So please excuse this late and probably irrational post.

But I had planned this post all week.

“3:10 To Yuma” is coming to movie screens September 9th,, and I’ll go the theater for the first time in years. That last comment shows my opinion of most of today’s movie offerings.

The movie is a remake of my second all-time favorite western by the same name. That one starred Glenn Ford and Van Heflin. I still watch it frequently on the Starz's Western channel. If you’ve never watched it and you’re a western fan, you’ve missed a treat. Like “High Noon,” it is in black and white. A guitar is its music backdrop. Tension is palpable.

It's a duel between two men. A good man, a farmer, who is desperate for cash in drought-stricken Bisbee Arizona (I confess to some bias here; my dad grew up there), agrees to put an outlaw on the 3:10 train to Yuma. Problem is the outlaw’s gang is determine to free him, no matter how many lives they must take. Like “High Noon,” the farmer is alone in his quest. At least in the original.

Unlike “High Noon,” it’s not entirely good against evil. Too many nuances. The hero isn’t embarking on a quest for noble reasons. He’s doing it for money. And the villain, well, you’ll have to watch.

Glenn Ford, as the outlaw, was great. Although he's a ruthless murderer, he has charm in abundance. At every turn, he is testing his captor.

In the new version, Russell Crowe has Glenn Ford’s part. I can’t see how he could possibly be better in the role, but then he IS Russell Crowe. And the last film I saw in the theater was “Master and Commander.” I think that tells you something about how much I like him.

I’ve seen some of the trailers. In the original film, Van Heflin’s sons were young. Apparently in this version, the farmer’s son is older and follows him. Looks like terrific action. Terrific cinematic effects.

I’m not so sure I like that. There was something about the stark plainness of the original that was compelling.

But I do like the fact that it is a major motion picture, and that two other major motion picture westerns are coming out this year. I hope it brings readers back to the western.

I know I'll be first in line when it opens here.

And speaking of westerns, I said “3:10 to Yuma” is my second favorite western. My all time favorite is “The Big Country” with Charlton Heston, Jean Simmons, Gregory Peck and Burl Ives. Unlike “3:10,” it’s a big sprawling epic of a western. The last scenes are classic.

My third favorite is, of course, “High Noon.”

“Duel in the Sun” is right up there as well.

What are your favorites? New, old and timeless?