STELLAR DAY (Anne Stuart)

More comics next week, but for now I have to celebrate an absolutely stellar day last week. I had to trundle off to the big city (70 miles away) to see the doctor, and when I came back I had the following excellent things happen:

First, an impressive advance arrived unexpectedly, and my heavens did we need it. The wolf is at the door, the children are ravening beasts themselves, and the tax people are grumbling.



Then, an email from my agent saying that FIRE AND ICE, Reno's story and the last (for now) in the Ice series, got a lovely review in Publisher's Weeekly
It said "Reno is charismatic and infuriating, Jilly is both strong and vulnerable -- and oddly believable as a 20-year old Californian virgin genius. The plot moves at breakneck pace, never letting up on the sexual or criminal tension. Stuart handles the action well and sprinkles Japanese customs and language vividly throughout."
Sigh. Just lovely.

And then, the absolute creme de la creme. There was a message on my answering machine from the divine Terry McLaughlin telling me to call her back for excellent news. The Romance Writers of America give awards that are comparable to the Oscars, and making the finals is comparable to being nominated for an Oscar. And two of my most beloved books made it this year -- both ICE BLUE and ICE STORM. I've won the RITA before, but never for my most beloved books. They usually don't even make the finals, and for two of them to make it this year is beyond blissful!

Even more delightful, fellow Storybroads Pat Potter, Tara Taylor Quinn and Maggie Shayne are finalists. Plus my Aussie buddies Anne Gracie and Anna Campbell!



So no more complaining about my career being in the toilet. No more down in the mouth attitude. I am a goddess, my friends are goddesses, and all is well (even though it's still freaking snowing outside!)

Life is good!

StoryBroads in the Spotlight

The RITA Award is the highest honor presented in the genre of romance fiction.

Four StoryBroads had eligible books this year. And four StoryBroads were selected (by a panel of judges)for the final round. The RITA awards will be presented at the Romance Writers of America Conference in San Francisco this summer.

Meantime, if you happened to miss one of these terrific 2007 books, now's your chance to catch up.



Maggie launches a new series, Wings in the Night, with another of her fast-paced, inventive, witty, thrilling adventures.

Nearly as exciting as Maggie's own Real Life!



Pat returns to her beloved Scottish Highlands with this compelling love story.


From the Publishers Weekly *starred* review: "Potter keeps getting better with every outing . . . . a pure pleasure."






Tara's suspense novels take us to the core of human pain and triumph. As Booklist wrote of Tara, she combines "a superb sense of characterization" with "a realistically gritty plot," making for "an exceptionally powerful book."


"Harlequin took a chance on this one," Tara said. "The hero is her rapist."
But reader feedback justified the risk. HQ rearranged Tara's schedule, contracted a sequel, and Trusting Ryan will be on the shelves in July!




Krissie scores a twofer!

In Ice Blue, she sweeps us off to Japan with the exceedingly dark and dangerous Yakuza assassin, Taka, and the young museum curator caught up in a deadly scheme. Action, suspense, and romance galore.




Ice Storm features another of Anne Stuart's masterful heroes--dark, mysterious, and delicious. The guys you love to hate and can't resist. This one (Killan) is a rogue with a past. Surely the heroine can never forgive him for what he did. Can she?

Wordplay (LynnK)

Just lately, I’ve been inundated with teaching, critiquing, and editing jobs. You know, the jobs that pay the bills. I knew that changing genres would be a problem, but I never realized how little time I’d have to work on new projects while keeping Lymond in Fancy Feast and me from pushing a grocery cart.

Yup. I have nightmares about becoming the Bag Lady of Coronado. “There she is, poor dear. Used to be a teacher and singer and writer. Now she’s digging for soda cans in trash bins.”

Editing is work that I like, though. And if I do say so myself, I’m exceedingly good at it. Oughta be, after so many years. Even when I’m being merciless, which is generally the case when dealing with an author who shows real promise, I invariably love and respect my clients. Writing a story for publication is not for the faint-hearted. Submitting it for a critique and paying for same shows true dedication.

In the early nineties, my own painful apprenticeship as a writer of fiction—during which I made every mistake known to man and invented several of my own—taught me the hard way how many things can go wrong between the visions in our heads and the words on the page. Nitpickers looking for flaws (unless they’ve been hired to do exactly that) should lighten up.

But writing troubles are by no means confined to those of us who labor in the trenches. Desperate to escape editing a story in which the characters were chuckling, blinking, and groaning every page or two (by page 30, I was considering ways to kill them all off!), I wandered over to the New York Times in search of relief.

Or a good laugh. The NYT is nothing if not pretentious. But there’s enough variety to keep me entertained, and sure enough, I came upon a skewing of book reviewers: “Seven Deadly Words of Book Reviewing.” You can check out the original piece here:
http://tinyurl.com/2699cp

Mind you, we authors are not fussy about praise. If it’s about us, and if it sounds good, we love it, even when it reads like a ‘phone-it-in’ review. A money quote like “Master Storyteller Lynn Kerstan soars to new heights with the splendid . . . .” Okay, I made that up. But from words used about my books. Honest!

However. Reading Bob Harris’s list of words overused by prestigious reviewers caused me to feel rather sorry for the poor creatures. Unless they are dissing my books, for which eternal damnation is only a little too harsh. It must be difficult, though, to keep coming up with innovative ways to say “This is mediocre,” or “This is superb,” or “This really sucks.”

Not that anyone should be excused from writing “eschewed” or using “muse” as a verb. I do have my standards. But Mr. Harris’s screed was outdone in the comments section, where scores of NYT readers noted their own pet peeves. And, I must add, defended “eschewed.” Go figure.

Readers do pay attention, though, God bless them. And here are a few of the words and phrases in reviews that make them want to claw their eyes out:

magisterial
subtle-but-powerful
taut
lofty
weaves a rich tapestry
darkly comic
page-turner
timeless
evocative
searing
cracking good yarn/read
XXX is at the top of his/her game...
spare and elegant prose
deceptively simple
a fresh new voice
plumbed the depths
deeply felt
a luminous parable (and its cousin, luminescent)
transcending genre

I confess that last one really gets my goat. What’s wrong with genre fiction? Not a damn thing. At its best, genre fiction tells great stories that people want to read. It can even be timeless, evocative, darkly comic, luminous, and deceptively simple!

Any words—in reviews, books, or any context—that you majorly loathe?

Let me start our list with "very unique," "a tremulous sigh," and “nether lips.”

Thinking Pets (Maggie)

Look at these adorable puppies. My daughter called to tell me she'd seen an ad for some just like them in the paper, and she thought I should know. Well, at first I wasn't overwhelmed. They're English Mastiffs. I'd spoken of wanting a bull mastiff, and I wasn't ready just yet.

But then I went online and looked up the breed, and I think I've fallen in love. They're just too adorable. And I'm so missing having a dog in my life.




Dogs are special, and I'm really lonely without one. People let you down, over and over it seems, but dogs just never do. They love you, they don't hold it back from you or make you earn it. They love you on good days and even more on bad days. They're always there when you need them, and even when you don't. I think I need a dog. I've missed my pals. No one loves you like a dog does. And I kinda need that right now.

I thought the pups were ready to go from what my daughter read in the paper. I decided to phone, even though I knew I couldn't take one yet. I wanted to know if there would be another litter later in the year. But it turns out, they won't be ready to go for 8 weeks--they've just been born. There are two males left unspoken for, but they're going fast. It seems like the timing might be perfect. So should I go for it?

These dogs have some peculiarities. The main one being size. Adults males average 200 pounds. I love big dogs, but that's a LOT of dog. And the other thing is that they tend to have short life spans. They live 6 to 8 years. That's buying into guaranteed heartbreak, isn't it?


Then again, I guess there's no guarantee any pup I bring home is going to live a given amount of time. And I ask myself, wouldn't six or eight years of unconditional doggy love be worth it in the end? I just lost Sally and Wrinkles. And it hurt, but I wouldn't trade my time with them to spare myself the pain. So I guess that answers that question.

I'll need to fence in the yard and install a doggy door the approximate size of a garage door, I guess. Can I do all that in 8 weeks? Maybe.

What do you think? Should I get an English Mastiff pup, soon to be an English Mastiff Horse? I've always loved big dogs!





Maggie

Funny How Life Works (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Not too long ago I was accused of burying my head in the sand. Okay, give me a break, if I was, it was only for protection from the shrapnel flying around me. And maybe accusation is too strong a word. I had the fact gently pointed out to me. More than once. In a tone that grew louder so that I could hear it.

I will be grateful for the rest of my life for that piece of insight. Somehow in the past months my way of coping with challenges that had seemed to be bigger than I was, had changed. Instead of taking them on, I'd given up. I'd cowered. I learned to bury my head and wait for the air to clear. And maybe sometimes that's necessary. Maybe you have to lay low and wait for resources to help you stave off the adversarial bullets. Or at least to rest your weary soul until the well is filled enough to keep you hydrated while you take on the barbs being flung in your direction.

And then, with the help of an earthly angel, I saw me, lying there, deaf and blind, with the footprints of life embedded in my prone back. And it wasn't just past footprints. No, there were fresh ones. And they were going to continue to be laid on my raw flesh for as long as I laid there in their path.

Suddenly, standing up seemed easy. A heck of a lot easier than continuing to bear the pain of all those feet stomping on me! In two weeks time I feel as though I've moved mountains. At least, I've started to do so. More importantly, like when you work out instead of lay in front of the television set, I'm getting stronger every day. Amazing how getting up and expending energy actually builds energy. Inertia begets inertia. Action begets action.

So, I started taking back my life. I used to make ice cream on a regular basis. And then a few years ago, I stopped. Last year I lost the ice cream maker. And last weekend, my husband and I bought a new one. I made Oreo ice cream for my step daughters for Easter dinner. Such a small thing, making ice cream. And yet, as I filled the blender with my special ingredients, and then listened as the electric ice cream maker spun its magic, I somehow settled back into myself. There was a sense of familiarity, a personal rhythm, that I'd been missing, and yet it greeted me as though it had been there all along. Welcome Home.

So, here's the funny thing about how life works. You lie down and life doesn't seem to respect you much. It doesn't even seem to like you all that much. You stand up, you say no, you have the courage to fight battles that seem larger than you are, you take back control where you can and face that which seems to be stronger than you are, and suddenly, life likes you a lot. Or maybe it's you that likes you, I don't know, but life definitely cooperates. Things that are out of your control suddenly start to work with you, instead of against you.

Yesterday was the dreaded day of the year for many of us writers. It was the day the RITA calls went out. For a few lucky ones, the day would be one they would always remember, a day they would re-cant over and over again to anyone who would listen. It would be a dream come true. One of those magical moments. That phenomenal rendition of the day would be for the less than a hundred authors who actually GOT the call. The rest of the hundreds of us out here would wait by the phone, or not, we'd try to pretend we didn't care, we'd prepare for the disappointment when the phone rang and it was just a loved one needing something from us - or we'd block the day completely from our minds so we didn't suffer any of those things. Some of us would hang on line all day, watching as peers made posts about getting the call, and we'd congratulate every one of them, all the while our hearts would be sinking because their celebration was confirmation that we weren't going to have one. We'd tell ourselves that it's all subjective (which it is) and that it didn't mean we were bad writers (and it doesn't.) Some of the more valiant of us would shrug off the day with an 'oh well, there's always next year.'

For those of you who don't know, the RITA awards are the highest accolades in our genre. They're like the Grammies, or the Emmy's, given away at a black tie (okay, black dress, we're mostly women) affair in a show similar to the Academy Awards. There are only 12-15 RITA's awarded each year. To final for a RITA - the calls that went out yesterday went to this year's finalists - means four months of hype and publicity and anticipation of the great event in July, followed by four days of wining and dining and celebrating at the venue (this year in San Francisco) culminating in the final night and the Award Ceremony. The finalists all sit down front with their editors and with one guest a piece. The lights go down. The stage lights come on. The voice over booms. The glitter appears. And...you get the picture.

Last week, in preparation for the Dreaded Day (yesterday) I told my husband that RITA calls were going out in seven days. On Monday I told him, that RITA calls were going out the next day. Yesterday morning, I reminded him, just in case he'd missed my other moans, 'RITA calls go out today'. And when I met him for lunch, I told him that people had started posting on line. The Calls had gone out. I didn't get one.

My husband, wise and blessed man that he is, calmly asked if all the calls happened at exactly the same time. Couldn't some still be coming? Yes, I allowed, as some of the board members who made calls worked outside the home during the day so there could be another surge of calls. But...

He said I looked tired. I said I was depressed. He asked why. I said because it was a grey day and I was missing my mother. (Both true statements.) But we have a lot of grey days in Ohio. And I miss living close to my mother even when the sun is shining.

And on the way back home, as I drove the long winding country roads with my silent phone as my only companion, I suddenly took charge. I looked at it and told it to just hurry up and ring. The Call had to come this year. It just did. 'Just hurry up and do it,' I silently directed.

It did. It rang. It was the groomer telling me Jerry and Taylor were done and eager to come home. I was eager to have them home. Remember, I was depressed, and those babies lighten my heart.

I went and got them. I went to the grocery. I came home. Avoided e-mail that would be filled with congratulations - I was truly happy for my sister writers, just couldn't face the silent jeers of 'you weren't good enough' that my own psyche would conjure up. I read headlines. And eventually took a deep breath, got my head out of the sand, and faced the things I couldn't control. I opened my e-mail program. And there they were - post after post of congratulations.

And right in the middle of them, there was this thing that said, RITA Finalist Info. Funny, why should I be getting that? It was a private post. Why did I need info for my greatly talented friends? I opened the e-mail with a frown on my face. I've moved. RWA (Romance Writer's of America who sponsors the RITA Awards) didn't have my current phone number. So I didn't get the Call.

I got the E-MAIL.

The book I told you all about last summer - the one where the heroine had been raped and the hero was her rapist - the book that was a huge risk - is a RITA finalist. I'm standing up tall. Actually I jumped up. I screamed. And then was certain I'd read wrong and went to a different computer (like that would make a difference) brought up my e-mail there and found the message again. The font was different, but the message said the exact same thing. Yep, Sara's Son finaled.

And as life would have it, those things that are out of my control, are well organized - better organized than if they were in my control. Because the RITA hype and publicity is all coming for Sara's Son at the exact time that the sequel to the book, Trusting Ryan, is being released.

Also, as life would have it - standing up works for all of us. I have THREE very special sisters right here on Storybroads who have been standing up all year. You all see them face hardship with honesty and open eyes, with determination and cheer, and they got THE CALL.

A round of applause, please...

PATRICIA POTTER!!!! Is a finalist with Beloved Warrior!!
MAGGIE SHAYNE!!!! Is a finalist with Demon's Kiss!!
ANNE STUART!!!! Is a DOUBLE finalist with Ice Blue and Ice Storm!!

Funny How Life Works...

Beware the Killjoys and Douche Bags (Suzanne Forster)

Did you know that douche bag was an official synonym for killjoy? Neither did I, but according to the Urban Dictionary, the second definition of killjoy goes like this: People who are douche bags and have to ruin the fun of everything, kill the mood or shoot everything down.

Uh huh, sound like someone you know? Me, too. They’re the ones with pins at the ready to pop our smiley balloons. They carry buckets to rain on our parades, probably because they’re terrified we’re having more fun than they are. It seems these people would rather sabotage others’ happiness than make an honest effort to have some of their own. What’s with that anyway? And how about those snooty types who enjoy sitting in judgment of others because it makes them feel superior? And last but not least, the know-it-alls. What’s more fun than someone who lives to boost their ego by demonstrating their intellectual superiority at every opportunity? I’ll bet they didn’t know that douche bag means killjoy.

The way I see it, if the douche bags of this life have that great a need to be superior, let’s give them an award: Big Fat Douche Bag of the Week, or something like that. Maybe they’ll pipe down and stop killing the joy for the rest of us.

With that in mind, and with no further ado, I give you my pick for Big Fat Douche Bag of the Week. Dah dah dah duum ...

For his incredibly mean-spirited take on one of my favorite TV shows, the honor goes to television critic, Mr. Jon Caramanica. Mr. C, which could also be short for Crankypants, wrote a scathing critique of “Dancing With the Stars” for the L.A. Times, Sunday edition, entitled: "Schmaltz meets mediocrity and what do you get? A hit."

The entire article puts down the show and by association, its viewers. It's such an elitist, snobbish take on the show that the you’re left feeling you couldn’t be anything but a mediocre human being if you actually enjoy it. Mr. C can’t imagine why anyone would want to watch B and C list celebs compete to win in a dance contest that celebrates mediocrity.

Really? Does he have no concept of the ingenuity and appeal of second chances or of rising to the challenge? Has he completely missed the fish out of water concept the show is based on and all of the other inspiring elements that go into it? Watching non-dancers stretch themselves to the limits to improve week after week and get so elated about their progress is not only inspiring to them, it's inspiring to us. Witnessing the handicapped find success against the odds is entertainment at its best, in my opinion. These contestants are better than life coaches or motivational speakers. They risk their reputations and occasionally their dignity, for which Mr. C criticizes them mercilessly, despite the fact that over past seasons several of them have gone on to become role models for us all.

He criticizes the judges too, referring to Bruno Tunioli as an “excitable monkey.” Better than a Big Fat Douche Bag, Mr. C. Sure, Bruno gets little goofy, but that's all in good fun and adds to the entertainment. And it comes from his heart. He's passionate about dance.

If Mr. Caramanica had included an email address in his piece, I would have sent him a copy of this blog. Happily. Possibly he should have reserved some of the nerve it took to write that all that rubbish about mediocrity and used it to shore himself up for the readers’ responses. Maybe I'll send it to the L.A. Times publisher and ask him to forward it to Mr. C. What possessed him to be so picky and demeaning, I don't know, but he doesn't represent the views of the twenty million Americans who watch the show, and since we outnumber him by a good bit, maybe he's the one who's off base and out of sync. What is he? A failed dancer? An aspiring judge? Methinks there's a whole lot of ego involved.

I first complained about the article in my Yahoo group and one of the members, Ray, who gets credit for turning many of us on to the show, said the only part of the article he agreed with was Caramanica’s observation that the judges were tougher on the women than the men. I would agree with that, and in Mr. C’s defense, he did round out his article with some praise for the women celebs and even one of the men.

Hm, maybe I should take back that award.

No, it’s all yours, Mr. Caramanica, and I’m afraid you do deserve it. But don’t expect another one. I sincerely doubt I’ll be reading your column again. That kind of negativity I can live without.

So what about the rest of you? Is there a douche bag or a killjoy in your life? If you don’t want to name names, feel free to call them Mr. or Ms. Crankypants. You might even give them an award. Maybe they’ll stop raining on your parade.

Suz

Tales of Krissie pt. 2 (Anne Stuart)

Part two of the dangerous life of Sister Krissie the Besieged Writer.
More next week!

Horrors: I've Turned Into An Old Fogey (Patricia Potter)

I’m off for the Big Apple next week. Tuesday, to be exact. The stated purpose is the Novelists, Inc., Conference. The real purpose: I love New York.
As I mentioned last week, I usually love everything about New York. The people, the tempo (very different from Memphis), the plays, the museums, the Hudson River..

So with my usual wont for planning every single moment of a trip, I started looking for Broadway offerings. I have Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon. I have saved all my pennies for two years for this particular guilty pleasure. So three months ago, I started looking for plays to attend.

I adore Broadway, especially musicals. I loved (an indication of how ancient I am) “Showboat”, “South Pacific”, “Oklahoma”, “1776,” and “Lil Abner.” I was entranced by “Cats,” “Chorus Line,” and “Phantom Of the Opera.” I was enchanted by the staging of “The Lion King. One of my all-time favorites is “Les Miserables,” which I saw four times on stage. The music is magnificent.

Okay, I admit to being Broadway’s biggest fan. It’s second only to oceans in the list of things that make me giddy.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the theater. I can't find anything beckoning. There’s little new and innovative. I looked and looked. I saw a revival of “South Pacific.” A revival of “Gypsy.” “Wicked” is there, but I saw it three years ago.

“Mary Poppins” is a possibility but when I went to a web site that reviewed plays, it didn’t do very well. Adult themes, some reported. A edginess, said another. Mary Poppins?

Sorry, but I like my Mary Poppins pure.

Three years ago, I saw “The Producers.” I loved the second act, but was turned off by the constant use of the F word in the first. I liked the old movie version better.

Someone told me “Jersey Boys” had great music, but any number of people walked out, again because of the language.

I’m not a prude. I worked on a major newspaper when most of the reporters were veterans. I understood cursing was part of their lexicon, and it really didn’t bother me, but when you throw it into a musical, I tend to frown.

That made me think of other things I don’t like. The lack of great juicy mini-series (although I must admit HBO’s “John Adams” is quite magnificent). But think “The Thorn Birds" and "Rich Man, Poor Man." When last have you panted for the next installment of a series?

And I don’t like the drought of big family sagas in the fiction area. Publishers want shorter and shorter books. Cost less to produce. Takes less shelve space. But I like a book I can crawl into and stay more than a day or so.

I’m also disgruntled that I had absolutely no interest in the top Oscar movies this year. I have precious little free time, and I really don’t want to spend it on serial killers and the end of the world.

So put me down in the old fogey category. I yearn for the days when they made movies that entertained rather than sent you running for the closest bottle of tranquilizers. I yearn for an enchanting new musical that’s not a revival. I want a book not sliced down to bones by editors.

And. speaking of complaints, I want music I can understand and which actually contains a melody.

So there it is. A very sad fact. I have truly joined the ranks of old fogies.

###
Do try to see “John Adams” on HBO. It is really quite wonderful.

###
I won’t be blogging next Saturday. As reported here, I will be playing in New York. But I’ll tell you all about the Ninc Conference the following week.

Rituals (LynnK)

Tradtitions. Rituals. Old as humankind.

(Image by Stephanie Sanchez)

Most of what we know about our distant ancestors has been learned from the relics of ancient ceremonies. Births. Weddings. Rites of Passage. Burials. Sacrifices. Monuments to deities and monarchs and conquests. Totems. Tributes to the plants and animals who share the planet with us.

Anyone who grows up (as I did) in the embrace of organized religion has an experience of this. And frankly, at least in my mind, some of the rituals are just plain silly.

My junior year in a Catholic women’s college (the first two years I was in a convent, meaning I was pious and all that), I found myself part of a MayDay procession that ended in the chapel with pairs of processing young women, each with a gladiola in hand, pausing before an altar to place said gladiolas in a vase. Two tall vases flanked a statue of the BVM (Blessed Virgin Mary).

I’d been participating in MayDay processions since the second grade. They were harmless, lovely, and a chance to get out of the classroom. But something about this college-level ceremony raised my hackles.

As each pair of students deposited their gladiolas, they dutifully recited these words: “Oh, Mary, I pledge thee the lily of my heart.” There were more words that I can’t remember. Just let it be said that the promise was one of virginity until marriage.

I’ve no problem with that as an ideal. At the time, I was pure as the driven snow (no action to be had in a convent!). But quite a number of my classmates had already drifted, as well I knew. In some cases, it was difficult not to chortle when they deposited their lilies. . . er, gladiolas. . .and took an oath they’d long since disavowed.

My senior year, I took action. Never let it be said I didn’t get riled up about a stupid cause. When I was done, the pledge of virginity became a vague prayer about good intentions and general benevolence to all people. Contrarily, I remained a virgin for several more years and can’t say I’m always benevolent to all people.

Sometimes we engage in rituals with wholehearted commitment, sometimes to go along with the crowd, and sometimes because we long for the values those rituals celebrate. All those purposes are valid, I suspect.

I’m writing this after returning from a Holy Thursday ritual, the first I’ve attended in more years I’m willing to admit. And fact is, I was only there because I’ve joined the parish choir, and I did that because I love to sing. No claims of virtue here.

But during the long ceremony, I saw true piety and commitment and love weave in a dance of music and prayer and bonding. The same takes place, I am sure, among people of all faiths around the world. Even the rejection of religious faith draws people together, many of them models of dedication to moral principles.

Tonight I was singing unfamiliar music. New to the choir, I had my eyes mostly pinned on the score.
During the ceremony, the priest washed the feet of twelve parishioners, but I missed all that. When we were walking outside, I needed my small flashlight to follow the
notes. Most of the time, I was scrambling to keep up and avoid screwing up.

But when I got home and settled, cat in lap and a glass of wine in hand, I was glad I had been a part of that ritual.

For once, the Loft Choir was stationed up front in the sanctuary, right near the pews reserved for the disabled. The beauty and hope and acceptance in their faces brought tears to my eyes. I kept ducking down behind the piano to wipe them away.

Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be back at the church for Good Friday rituals. Saturday evening, the lonnnnng Easter Vigil service will include, I am told, thirteen baptisms. Thirteen little babies and proud parents and stalwart godparents. I can hardly wait. And on Sunday, Easter Mass with us singing lots of Mozart and other wonderful music.

I think of myself as a fairly rational, unsentimental and occasionally cynical critter. But turns out I need only join the gazillions of humans who’ve taken part in rituals to feel the same emotions and commitments they have felt.

On the other hand—to be perfectly honest—I can get all sappy watching a Hallmark Cards commercial. Go figure. And come Easter morning, I’ll wax sentimental about bunny rabbits and Easter baskets.

But only until I get my hands on a Cadbury Egg and a box of See’s chocolates. Where rituals are concerned, I can be pathetically shallow.

Life's Little Pieces (Maggie Shayne)

Life, I think, consists of lots of little pieces. So do we, I guess. Shamans talk about soul pieces, parts of ourselves that get stolen from us along the way by those who hurt us, or events that shake us, and they guide people on journeys to reclaim those missing parts. My life's little pieces were all holding together pretty cohesively,



I think, until the fire blew them hither and yon. But I think I've begun gathering them back together again, one by one. The very biggest piece came back into place for me on this past Friday, when the heating/cooling expert came to the house, and managed to get heat into my one little haven-like corner of it. The office that used to be a bedroom that used to be a garage, that is currently my apartment. By the time the clean up & demo crew left for the day, the heat was on. The water, hot and cold, was working in my bathroom. The electricity in my little section was on. There was no longer any reason not to be there.

So I washed up and headed off to town to pick up the essentials I would need to survive. I really needed almost everything, bedding, towels, dishes, a mini-fridge, throw rugs. By the time I got back, the back of Sam, my Murano, was so packed I couldn't see behind me. I unloaded it all, and spent until midnight setting things up. I managed to reclaim my little round breakfast table and chairs from the soot, and a few of my dishes too. As I laid the first area rug over the plywood on the floor, Glory, my cat, laid on it and rolled from side to side, purring her brains out. She was glad for warmth, for something soft, for me being home and making a cozy nook for us amid the remnants of our precious home. And it was good. She slept by my side all night long.

Saturday was easy, because I went back to the B&B for breakfast, and to pack, then spent the rest of the day and part of the night with my critique group. So Friday I worked until midnight, then slept and Saturday I was gone most of the time, and then came back and slept. But Sunday was a little tougher. No TV or internet, and I was alone in the house for the whole day for the first time since the fire. I walked around looking at what was no longer there.
The soot and blackness and smoke smell are mostly gone. Now what remains are the skeletal bones of my Serenity. Two by fours and plywood, stripped bare. And that's progress, really. But to me, on Sunday, it was just emptiness. And I admit, I spent most of the day crying. Couldn't seem to stop. But I think I needed to let it out. Well, mission accomplished.

After that one rough day, though, things improved. The Dish guys came and got the Television working, so I could reclaim another little piece of my life. I like watching CNN late at night, and The Today Show first thing in the morning. My routine is returning to normal, bit by bit. A few days later, the Internet guy came and got me back online again. And that's another little piece taken back. I need to be able to blog twice a week and check email every morning over coffee.

Tomorrow's mail will bring me another bit of my life back. The synopsis for the new book, the one I had just sent to my editor before the fire, thank goodness, is on its way back to me. My critique group gave me new ideas, and I'm ready to create again, but I wanted the synopsis to work from. Since my laptop and the thumb drive on which I'd backed it up were both burned to nothing, I haven't had it. But tomorrow I will, and another piece of my life and my routine with it. I'll be writing again.
And pretty soon, very soon, I hope, the rebuilding of my home can begin. The demolition and clean up is as finished as it can be, I think. We still have a few other things to do before we can start hanging sheetrock though. We need to try to clean the bricks around the fireplace. We need to get the electrician back here to rewire the entire place, except my area which he's already done. And we need an architectural engineer to take a look at the place and give it the thumbs up. Once he does, the code enforcement officer will grant us a building permit, and the resurrection of Serenity can begin.

I can hardly wait to get started.

I find it interesting to think about and be aware of what I missed most, among my "things" once they were all stripped away. I wonder what that tells me about myself. I think the first thing I was missing was music. From the first day the crew and I began working here, I felt its lack, and by day two I had dug a tiny boom box out of the rubble, washed the soot off it, bought batteries for it, and found a radio station that worked. I couldn't seem to be here without music. So that was first. Then the phone. It wasn't so much that I missed it as that it was necessary. No cell service up here.

I missed my TV and my Internet terribly until I got them restored too, probably the Internet most. It's my main means of communication with the world.

I missed plants. The very first night I went for supplies so I could sleep here, I picked up two plants. A hanging pot of ivy and a bamboo in a pretty dish. Oh, and my Bunn Coffeemaker. I was so upset about losing my original one. It was a gift, and meant a lot to me, and I loved it. I was shocked to find one in Walmart that very night, exactly like the one I had. So I picked up some Dunkin' Donuts coffee and was good to go. I missed my clothes terribly, particularly because I was told they probably couldn't be saved, so when the dry cleaner brought them back, most of them perfectly clean, I was overjoyed. I think I enjoyed sorting through them and putting them away more than I've enjoyed most things lately. =) Oh, and my books! Gosh I missed my books. Hmm, the more I think about this, the more things I think of that I've missed achingly.

And then there were less tangible things that I missed. Being in my own space. Having my privacy, and my own things around me. Being able to blast my music and sing out loud, and workout when I felt like it. I loved the B&B, but being a guest is never quite as good for me as being . . . home.

Home. It's important.

What do you think you would miss most, if all your stuff just blipped out of existence one day, and you had to start over with nothing? (Try not to think in terms of destruction, though. Think of it as just an experimental mind game!)

Till next time,
Maggie

Battered and Scarred (Tara Taylor Quinn

'Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer thought is scarcely worth his while, to waste much time on the old violin, but held it up with a smile.' Myra B. Welch wrote the much quoted poem, The Touch of the Master's Hand, and today I am reminded of it. That old violin couldn't get three dollars at the auction block and yet, within seconds, was suddenly worth thousands when a master violinist stepped forward and picked up the bow. With a few strokes, he coaxed beautiful music from the abused instrument and then everyone wanted it.

I had the honor this week of meeting, via telephone, an 'old' violin, who has spent her life giving those few strokes to hundreds of other 'old' violins, helping turn them into priceless individuals. The woman's name is Sandra Ramos. She's in her sixties. Has wild red hair. Lives alone in a purple quonset hut with a tin roof that leaks. The hut used to be part of a military base. She doesn't own a computer and doesn't know how to use one. She doesn't have a television set. She has the ear of senators. Of countries. She's changing the world.

Sandra doesn't need technology to know. She just needs heart - which she has in elevated degrees. Enviable degrees.

One of the first things Sandra said to me was, 'I have opinions and I agree with them.' The seemingly egotistical statement is most telling, though when you hear what followed. 'When I want someone to agree with my opinions, I look in the mirror.'

She's used her ability to listen, and to really hear, to make a difference to every woman alive on this planet today. Back in the early seventies, as a product of the sixties, Sandra opened the very first battered women's shelter in the United States. Yes, folks, the very first!! Every shelter in the United States came after Sandra fought her battles, won public money for the care and healing of battered women. A shelter system in Canada is also fashioned after Sandra and her work.

Think of it. The very first battered women's shelter. And here I thought our government did that. Instead it was a woman. One woman. She opened that first shelter in her own three bedroom home where she lived alone with her three children. She opened it by accident. Sandra saw women alone with kids, in need; she saw space in her home; and she had to put two and two together. In short order, she had 23 people living in that three bedroom home. She was told, 'Sandra you can't do that. You have to follow the law; you have to do paperwork. You can't just help people because they have a need.' Her response? 'Why not?'

Sandra says it was harder for the governement to get woman and children out after she had them in, than it was for them to prevent them from getting in in the first place with their paperwork. So she chose to use the back door. And fight for new front doors.

When she was charged for having broken a law that stated that an individual couldn't have three or more unrelated persons living in the same residence, she didn't fear jail. She didn't kick people out and save her police record behind. No, Sandra listened to heart, to reason. She declared that the law was unconstitutional. She fought the charges. And won that battle.

She didn't win them all. She was denied funding. Her women were moved out for a time. And when she had a fully functioning successful shelter, so successful she had to have a board, her board fired her.

That didn't stop Sandra. It couldn't stop her. This woman is driven from the inside out. Her energy speaks to me. I relate to it as I have lived by, less powerful probably, but similar forces since the days of my own slowly dawning enlightenment, dawning since my birth. Sandra can't just sit back and accept what the world tells her (or anyone tells her) just because it is said. She listens. She tunes in to her heart. And then she acts.

And in so doing, one woman has moved mountains. Of course she's had a phonemenal amount of help and support, but SHE is the one who moved those supporters to actions of their own.

There was a time when a gentleman stopped outside of one of Sandra's shelters to drop off a donation of used goods. Sandra met him in the parking lot and before he left, she'd coaxed him out of a $1000 donation.
I thank God for Sandra, and would urge every woman and man alive to do the same. Women are battered and abused in every single walk of life. And abuse often doesn't take the form of physical beatings. Often, and more insidiously, the abuse takes the form of mental manipulation, of the tearing down of a woman's confidence by her significant other until she is little more than an isolated being there to make his life as he wants or needs it to be. Women are physically less muscled than most men. We are often more emotional. Both of these traits are our greatest blessings, our greatest strengths. But they also make us very vulnerable to intimidation by someone who is bigger and physically stronger. Someone we cared for and committed our lives to - for better or worse.

It's hard - sometimes seemingly impossible - to break away from such control. Frighteningly because often times we don't even know we're being controlled. And breaking away isn't the hardest part. That comes when we have to face ourselves, to see what we allowed ourselves to become. To face the fact that we didn't see, that we weren't able to save ourselves sooner, or to prevent the circumstances from the beginning. For many of us, we also have children who have been effected and we have to look at them, to see how our choices have hurt them.

These circumstances aren't new within the past thirty years. Women have been abused since the dawning of time. (Or maybe shortly thereafter.) The difference today is that we can talk about it. We can educate each other. We know. AND...

WE HAVE SOMEPLACE TO GO. Thanks in large part to the hard work and courage of one woman. Sandra Ramos. Sandra doesn't care if it's against the law to help a battered woman in need when the choice is to help her or let her die. Ladies, this really is life and death. Many many more of us are alive today because of the shelters that are now government entities in pretty much every county across the nation. And we are alive because of others who have followed in Sandra's footsteps, people who have opened and are opening up private shelters to house abused and battered and homeless women and children.

Today Sandra is the founder and executive director of Strengthen Our Sisters (if you need a place to go, look her up NOW). SOS was founded in 1987 with a 2 bedroom apartment facility and now consists of 7 shelters, a computer school (because even while Sandra doesn't 'do' computers she recognizes that women need computer skills to help themselves as they recreate lives in todays world) 2 thrift stores, a daycare, a computer repair shop, legal services, a car donation project, a shelter for women with substance abuse problems, a place for seniors, support groups...

Oh, and did I mention, Sandra is also a college professor? She teaches social issue classes at two universities, raising awareness and educating men and women to the world of domestic violence in all of its generations. College credit classes.

And somehow, every day, Sandra finds the time and wherewithal to hike up the mountain where she lives and meditate - to go within and listen. To continue to hear the call.

I hope we all hear the call, too. Post here, now, and let's come together, giving thanks to Sandra and to all women everywhere. We are a blessed creature. We deserve to be fought for, to be cared for. We deserve to have women like Sandra at our backs, and she deserves and needs our care, too. I'm hoping to gather some support for Sandra here, anything I can pass on to her that strengthens her heart. Words that she can read and hear, to know that her work is appreciated. Anything that is said here, I will be passing along to Sandra. And if there's anyone out there who has the ability to do more, please, please look up your local shelters and donate. Food. Clothes. Toys. Even that old washer or dryer that still works but isn't quite right for you anymore. An older car that still runs and can provide transportation for a woman to and from work.

Or look up Strengthen our Sisters and donate directly to Sandra.

'Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer thought is scarcely worth his while...'

The Breast Whisperer (Suzanne Forster)

I had a brush with death last week. No, really, truly, I got a glimpse of my own mortality—and that was all it took for me to realize that I wasn’t ready to part ways with good old terra firma any time soon. I love this crazy planet and all the wonderfully crazy people on it. I didn’t know that before, not for a certainty, but I do now. I don’t want to die just yet, and I don’t want to go through a protracted illness, if I can help it. I have so much to live for, so much I want to do, although I’m still not quite sure what all of it is, but I want to find out and I want to do it, darn it, and now it looks like I’m going have my chance . . . thanks to the Breast Whisperer.

Last Wednesday morning, as I was getting ready to go to a hair appointment, I discovered a lump in my breast. A really large lump. Large and SCARY. I didn’t think lumps came that big, and I went into instant shock. I had just put on a stretchy camisole top in place of a bra, and I noticed an odd bulge below the nipple on my left breast. Sorry to have to get anatomical, but brushes with death often are anatomical, so it really can’t be helped, and it might even be useful information should you find yourself in this predicament, which I hope never happens!

Anyway, I thought the bulge was a wrinkle in the camisole’s shelf bra, but a quick attempt to smooth it out told me I was wrong—and filled my heart with horror. The room went pale and I reached for the bathroom counter to steady myself. I don’t remember how long it was before I took a breath, but I can still hear the sound of that gasp. Maybe it was a good thing that I had a very busy day ahead of me that started with a hair appointment (two inches of regrowth!) and included a long list of errands to be done on my way home, and then, in the early evening, a special support group meeting for people who’ve lost loved ones.

Wednesday was a day of shock and denial. I went through the motions, doing everything on my list, saying all the right things to people and acting as if nothing was wrong, although Joyce, my good friend and hair stylist, did ask if I was okay. She saw my unsteadiness as I made my way to her chair. I really couldn’t connect with anything very well, even the floor beneath my feet, but I told her I was fine, just getting over a bad bout of bronchitis, which was true. I couldn’t tell her about the lump. I couldn’t even tell myself about it. Maybe by the time I got home, it would be gone. That kept me going throughout the day.

Of course, it wasn’t gone. That night I looked up breast lumps on the internet and learned it wasn’t likely to be a cyst because I’m over forty and beyond the wild hormonal fluctuations of the birth control years. I did have fibrocystic breasts in those days, so I’d thought (hoped!) it might be a simple cyst. I told myself I would call the doctor first thing in the morning. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night, and the next day as I gave the doctor’s receptionist my reason for needing an appointment, I could already feel my spirits—and hopes—sinking.

They made me an immediate appointment, which only frightened me more. The examination was quick and thorough, and let me just say that women doctors are not afraid of inflicting pain. She didn’t mention the Cword. No one did. She also ruled out a cyst, but thought it might be an abscess. Okay, could be worse, I told myself. But that night I looked up breast abscesses and realized it probably wasn’t one. The lump was hard and sore, but it wasn’t hot or inflamed. It was cool to the touch. And huge, roughly the size of a golf ball.

The more information I found the more my options narrowed, and at that point, it seemed I had no good ones left.

The next day I got myself to the Breast Center at a nearby hospital. My doctor had ordered an ultrasound, reasoning that a mammogram would be very painful with a lump that large. She also said an ultrasound would be sufficient to diagnose an abscess. The Breast Center staff didn’t agree with her. Three different women called me to the desk to inform me that I had to have a mammogram. I refused all three times. Can you spell denial? My doctor said it was an abscess, I explained, going into all the reasons we could skip the jaws of death. My real reason was abject fear that the abscess would break and spread pus and poison throughout my body. If I was lucky enough that it was an abscess.

The women got reinforcements. I don’t know who they all were, but they swore everything would be fine, that my doctor would be called and permission would be obtained. I’m pretty sure they lied. At any rate, eventually my name was called and I was led down a hall to a changing booth, where I was given a robe and told to undress from the waist up. Am I having a mammogram? I asked. But my doctor said— And I went through the entire routine again.

That’s when Susan Lipton, the radiology tech, appeared. No doubt she’s the one they always summon for difficult patients. Susan has a pixie smile to go with her red cap of hair, a great laugh and a line of reassuring patter. Plus, her voice and manner are imbued with enough soothing authority to calm the most skittish of wild creatures. Namely, me. Am I having a mammogram? I asked. It was becoming my mantra.

You are, she said. You most definitely are, but I haven’t lost anyone yet, and I won’t lose you. I have this golf ball in my breast, I told her. It could break. There could be seepage, poison. She waved off my fears. I’m going to make you a promise, she said. I won’t break anything, and I won’t hurt you. And she didn’t. Much.

Susan is a virtuoso radiology tech. She’s also an amazing spirit, one of those people who soothes just by her presence. Even my memory of her soothes me, easing fears that could have haunted me. I had a terrible foreboding about the diagnosis, and still somehow, she made the ordeal bearable. At some point during that ordeal, I realized who and what she was, a breast whisperer.

Susan also has a poker face. I watched her expression all through the procedures (which, including the paperwork, took hours), looking for clues as to what she saw on the various screens, but not a one. Is it an abscess? I wanted to ask her, but I was afraid, and I knew she wouldn’t tell me until the doctor had seen the films. As she left the room, she told me to wait there on the table and relax. If everything was okay, she would be back to tell me to get dressed, and I could go. If there were any problems, the doctor would come back to talk to me.

Forgive the cliché, but it was the longest eighteen minutes of my life. And then the door opened and the doctor came in. Of course, I assumed the worst. In the seconds it took him to get to my side, I imagined that I was beyond help, that a lump that large would certainly have spread the cancer to the rest of my body. Would I even be a candidate for chemo? Was it too late?

The examining room turned into a slow-motion movie scene. I started to get off the table, but Susan appeared out of nowhere to hold me down. I hadn’t seen her come through the door. I hadn’t seen anything but the doctor who was torturing me by running in place. Just give me the terrible news!

“Good news,” he said. “It’s a cyst.” His nonchalance bowled me over. I said nothing, did nothing, just stared at him like he was a lunatic. How could it be a cyst when everyone had said it couldn’t? I’d ruled out a cyst on Wednesday. This was Friday. Late Friday. Nearly five o’clock. He stuck to his story. Not only was it a cyst, but he wanted to aspirate it immediately, with my permission. That’s when I learned I wasn’t out of the woods yet. It would depend on the color and consistency of the fluid.

“Yellow fluid, perfectly normal,” he said a short time later. Of course, he’d poked and probed my tender flesh with a wicked huge needle first. But have sweeter words ever been spoken? Rarely in my lifetime. Will you marry me? and it’s a boy were pretty darn sweet. I’d like to buy your book was crazy sweet. But this was life and death. And I was alive.

Suz

Tales of Krissie pt. 1 (Anne Stuart)

So I had so much fun doing Mort's comic yesterday that I thought I'd do them for a couple of weeks, as poor, beleaguered Krissie faces publishing. Gotta do something when you've got a wicked case of cabin fever.

Mort's Comic (Anne Stuart)

Mort (Maggie Shayne) had a house fire a few weeks ago, and she's been an absolute goddess coming to terms with it, helping the workers rip out the burned stuff and making her home her own again.
But her stuffed critters got pretty well smoked, so I decided she needed a plushy to make her life complete, and of course it would have to be a vampire, and of course, since it's from me, it has to be Japanese.
And then Macs come with the coolest program called Comic Life, so I decided to writer her a little story to accompany Vincent Valentine, former Turk from Final Fantasy and luscious kind of vampire.
So here's her comic:







And here's lovely Vincent himself, about to travel across the vast, snowy wastelands to Mort's side.

If You Don't Like The Weather . . . (Patricia Potter)

There’s a saying in Memphis: “If you don’t like the weather, just wait until tomorrow.”

That’s also my view of life. There’s always tomorrow.

The above statement about the weather was ever so true this week. Last Friday, snow. This morning, budding trees everywhere and temperatures in the seventies. Daffodils survived the snow and are showing their spring best. Peach trees are in full color. Other trees are budding. My many rose bushes have sprung into life.

I often envy those who live on the coast, but then I experience our glorious southern springs and the equally breathtaking falls, and I know why I stay here. I love the changing of seasons. I like the challenge if never knowing whether I need a coat or shorts.

So now that we have this glorious 70 degree weather (not sure how long it will last; we once had an horrendous ice storm here in April), I’m getting the gardening itch again. I’m on deadline so I can’t indulge it. But I dream of a garden filled with multi-colored blooms, coral azaleas and a swimming pool warm enough to use. Soon. Very soon.

In the meantime I’ll doing the last intensive work of my newest romantic suspense as well as some marketing – not nearly enough – for “Catch A Shadow” which was released this month. It’s about a good deed gone badly awry, plunging a paramedic into a deadly world she doesn’t understand. I really liked this book. It’s one that had been simmering in my mind for years, just waiting for the right time to erupt.

Now I’m finishing another. Probably – hopefully – two chapters away from the finish. I hope to have the first draft finished today, then eight days of frantic rewriting.

The reward: a trip to New York and the annual Novelists, Inc. Conference.
I love New York. It’s such an alien life form. I was totally appalled when I took one visiting New York editor to lunch about twelve years ago and discovered she didn’t know how to drive.

How could anyone not know how to drive?

But many New Yorkers apparently don’t.

As a southerner, I worship my car. It’s freedom. It’s life. A car in the south is nearly as important as a house. To some, every bit as important.

And so when I go to New York, I view the inhabitants as I might view beings from Mars or Venus or some unknown galaxy far, far away. I take the Staten Island Ferry, and the subway to the zoo and worry about getting a cab after a Broadway show. I thorough enjoy it, but only for a week. I want MY car.

But in the menatime, I can look with wonder at the lights and the people walking dogs in Central Park or on the streets. I seek out the pubs and friendly,family Italian restaurants. I burnish my southern accent because everyone seems to think I'm helpless and go out of their way to help.

And so now I’m happy. I see the end of a book. The beginning of a new one. A trip to New York. The onset of spring.

What more can anyone want?

Cat Fight (LynnK)

No, not that kind of cat fight.

This is a battle for territory on an epic scale. Female vs. Feline. At stake: A Chair.

Not just any old chair. Well, it’s 8+ years old, but still in pristine condition. This is a quality La-Z-Boy that lifts up or reclines at the push of a button. It is also my work station. Bookcases and tables holding printers, research materials, modems, a small stereo–-well, lots of stuff–-encase the chair in a makeshift alcove.

There’s also a footstool. The TV is directly in front of me. The phone is within reach. Most important, my laptop sits on a sturdy plastic table with curved legs that slip under the chair, putting the keyboard directly in reach. Best $40 I ever spent.

A goodly portion of my life is passed in this chair.

And the cat wants it for himself. Never mind that he has a four-level cat tree, a padded sleeping cubicle, my bed with its goose-down comforter, and a plush window seat to nap on.

Let me be clear about two things. Lymond is not destructive. Furniture is safe from his claws, which he sharpens on a sisal pyramid. The ugly coverlet and cushion on the chair are protection against my own tendency to spill tea or Diet Cranberry Juice when I’m ensconced there. But except for a 20-year-old office chair mainly used to plop groceries on before I put them away, it’s the only chair in this small apartment. And it’s mine, I tell you. Mine!




Yet here I am. Possession is, I am told, nine-tenths of the law.




True, the cat sleeps on the chair at night. Fine. He can have it any time I’m elsewhere. But just try to dislodge him when I’m ready to get to work. Talk about your passive resistance. Gandhi would be proud.

A cat that doesn’t want to move makes itself into a dead weight. This one is maybe eleven pounds, probably less, but he’s nearly impossible to budge. He twines into a position where there’s nothing to get hold of.

Worst of all, he knows by now that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Used to be I could trill “Up! Up! Up!" while lowering my derriere toward the cushions. With that size of missile coming at him, he scampered in a heartbeat.




So would any sane critter. Her left butt-cheek alone is bigger than I am!



Not to mention that he’s gone all sarcastic. What happened to the sweet widdle puddytat I used to live with? Could he be getting old and cranky like...er...me?

Nah. Just stubborn and wily. When I manage to dislodge him, he lurks nearby, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Or slink. This is true. The moment I start to rise, my backside barely lifted, he insinuates his furry self between me and the chair. I never see him coming, but I feel him slide under me like a Selkie.

Navy SEALs call it Insertion. Lymond could teach them a thing or two about risking life and limb to claim Hostile Territory.

Which is why I make a point of gathering all needed items, including a back-up glass of water and a snack, before planting myself on enemy cushions. If I have to leave, even for a few moments, he’ll have settled in and be curled up with his cat-snoot buried between his paws, as if he’d been there, fast asleep, for hours.

Just who does he think he’s kidding? Without mercy, I lever him off the chair. Listen up, Lymond!. If I don’t work, no Fancy Feast! The link between my writing and his dinner is not yet clear to him.

But he’s a past-master of the suck-up tactic, supper-wise. Even now, way after midnight as I try to type this, he’s planted himself on my lap in the small space between me and the computer, purring up a storm. Hard to resist a purring pussycat. And doesn’t he know it?

I suspect this is one of those 100-year-wars standoffs, with few actual battles and neither side yielding an inch. But being bigger and in control of the food-supply, I’m certain to win most of the skirmishes.

Pyrrhic victories, though. Whenever I dispatch him to one of his many comfy alternatives, he becomes a real Drama Diva.





Lymond in Exile







And I become a simpering patsy.

The ultimate cat weapon: Guilt.

Obla Dee, Obla Da, Life Goes On (Maggie)

Hi, all! This week's post from me will be an update and progress report on my house, my life, my overall condition and stuff like that. I'll leave it to others to discuss the state of the world in general. My focus has drawn in tight, and it's all on the above. That will probably continue to be the case for the next few posts as well, so if it gets boring, please email and tell me so, and I'll make an effort to poke my head out of my shell and look around for other topics of interest.

I'm still at the Bed & Breakfast and quite comfortable here. I get up every morning, early enough to take care of my email and any blogs or columns or website updates that are due. Then I put on grungy clothes and head up to Serenity. I arrive at the same time as the demolition crew, and we work all day, ripping down sheetrock, pulling nails, unscrewing screws, tearing up floors, pulling down ceilings, removing insulation, uninstalling the baseboard heating thingies. We tore down cupboards and counter tops and took off casing and molding and doors. And we hauled tons of debris out of the house and into the dumpster, which we've filled more times than I can still count.

But I think this Dumpster in the driveway now is the last one we'll need. The house is nearly gutted. Her two by fours are like bones without any flesh on them. We still have part of the kitchen floor left to go, and that's about it.

The electric company finally came and turned on the power Tuesday afternoon, after making me wait ten days for them. Then my electricians arrived Wednesday morning, Very Early. By the time the demo crew and I got there, the electricians had already been working for a couple of hours, and had my office all wired, and also the entry hall and outdoor lights and furnace and pump. The furnace and pump however, can't be turned on until the heating/cooling/plumber team get there to examine everything and pressure test all the pipes, repair any leaks and refill the furnace with water. That is due to take place today.

My office, which will soon become my apartment, needs a day of cleaning, which will also be today if that water gets turned on early enough. Then I'll just need to make a supply run and I'll be able to move in on Friday, right on schedule.

Next week a new crew will take over, and begin sandblasting the charred beams and things in the house. And once that's done, and the mess it makes cleaned up, the reconstruction can begin.

All of that, of course, is secondary to this. I can't find my cat. Glory usually hides very well when the crew is there. She hates all the people and all the noise, and usually finds a haven in the basement and won't come out until they all leave. But for the last two days, I haven't been able to coax her out at all. I have no idea where she's hiding, and I'm worried she might not even be there. Maybe she got outside and ran away, sick and tired of all the inconvenience. I'm pretty concerned. I'm sure she's all right, wherever she is. She's a very tough and self-sufficient cat, and has in the past run off for a few days at a time before showing up at the door as if nothing happened. I'll just feel better once I see her.

As for me personally, I'm still doing well. I'm eager to get back into the house, even my one little piece of it, for now. Everyone I know thinks I'll regret that, and that I'll wish to be anywhere else in short order, but I don't think so. It's my place. I miss it. I can't work here, can't work-out here, can't walk around in my underwear here, can't blast my music and dance around the place here, or sing into a wooden spoon here. (Note to self--buy a wooden spoon.)

I need my place back. I'll get in and I hope, get the internet connection working right away. I'll get the Dish Network people to come out and run me one single line for now. I'll hook up my DVD player and dust off my Bowflex, and the very first night I'll soak in my Jacuzzi to celebrate being back home. I can hardly wait. And I'll get up early every morning so that I can do my writing before the work crews arrive for the day. I'll save my workouts for after they leave, unless it gets to the point where there's nothing I can do to help, in which case, I'll go jogging while they work to give them some space. A wise man just told me that contractors just LOVE having the homeowner standing over their shoulder. So I'll have to keep that in mind and not be that kind of homeowner. I don't want to make the guys miserable, I just want to be involved. So I'll be nice and all will be well. I don't imagine demo crew usually like the homeowner standing over their shoulder, but my demo crew love me working with them. We've actually been having a great time.

I guess being there with my hands in the thick of it, makes me feel less powerless. I'm doing something. I'm physically reclaiming my home. I'm healing her by removing the damage and cleaning the wounds. It's so much better than sitting at the B&B waiting for others to do it all for me. It's empowering and extremely therapeutic for me to be involved in the work. And healthy too--it helps offset all the calories from the great food at the B&B.

So that's the update for now. The demolition is nearly done, then there is a week of sandblasting & cleaning, and then the rebuilding can begin. And I should be spending this coming weekend at home. I sure hope so!

Again, apologies for no pictures. There are a bunch of shots of the damage at my website, but I really do intend to get others up showing the progress, both there and here, as soon as possible. So check back.

Right now, though, I need to don my hardhat and safety glasses. I'm nearly late for work.

Maggie

The End (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Hmmm. The End. Another one of those phrases that pretty much scares the hell out of you. The End. So daunting. The end of life? The end of a relationship? The end of vacation? Once again, I remember a song - I might have mentioned I come from a musical family - I forget who sings it but it was one of the old crooners like Frank Sinatra or Andy Williams. Or maybe they all sang it. "And now, the end is near, and as I face the final curtain... It's a great song about doing things 'My Way', but still, The End is clearly sad. In the song, it's the end of a life. But there's the end of the road. The end of the show. The end of the toilet paper. Or...

THE END of this book!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah!!!!!!!!!!! I'm finally coming up out of the darkness. Or at least not having to live in it exclusively. Yesterday afternoon at 5:13, The End appeared on my computer screen. This was not daunting. This was not sad. This was Good News!!!

I guess, to a reader, The End of a book isn't so great, either, assuming it's a good book. But to a writer - what glory! What joy! What relief!! Kind of like the end of school. Freedom! What am I going to do first?

Yeah, kind of like that. The end of school. A time to celebrate. To bring in the idyllic days of summer. Isn't it great?

And...(because there always is one) kind of bittersweet, too. The last day of school always brought to mind that I wouldn't be spending my days with my friends. As a matter of fact, there were friends that I wouldn't see all summer. Friends that I had a class with that I might lose touch with forever if we never had another class together.

The book's kind of like that, too. I'm jumping up and down, celebrating the end. I'm rejoicing. And I feel this little pull. This sense of sadness. I laid in bed last night and couldn't sleep. I didn't want the day to end, the goodbye to be complete. I've spent all day everyday with a group of people who I am now sending off on their own. We'll never have those days together again. I'll still be sitting here in this same place, with the same computer. But they're gone. I'm going to miss them. I'm going to miss thinking about them, wondering about them. I'm going to miss their voices in my head.

Have you ever had someone come stay with you? You look forward to the visit. You anticipate and can't wait and want them to come. And by the time they're leaving, you're ready for them to go. You have so much to do, so much that got put aside while they were there. You need to take your life back. And yet, when they pack up and drive away, the house is empty. Your heart is a bit emptier. They've been gone five minutes and you're kind of lost. You miss them. Yeah, the book's kind of like, too.

Or, here's a better one. You raise your kid. She's with you all day every day. (Mine was, literally.) She's in your head and in your heart and she consumes you. And then she's a teenager and pulling away. She's disagreeing with you. She starts to think she knows more than you do and you start to feel a tad bit old and stupid. It's time for her to go. To have her own life. You help her pick a college, an apartment, a car, a job - things to help her find their freedom. You anticipate your own freedom. You're going to travel, retire, buy that big toy you've always wanted, go back to school. And then the day comes when the child actually leaves. She packs up (or you do it for her) and everything is loaded and she's gone. And there you are, in the same place, only you're alone. Empty. That voice that was constantly talking in your head is silent. You miss her like crazy. That's like the end of the book, too.

And then you take the next step. Because you have to. You're alive. You breathe. You look around you. You move. One little step. Another little step. And pretty soon you find out the best thing about The End. It's the beginning that it leads to. For every The End, there is a new beginning. It's a given. A natural. You know the old saying about one door closes another opens? It's a force in life. Every ending creates space for a new beginning.

Sometimes I tend to see life as linear. You start at the beginning and go to The End. Period. The end. Done. But as I stumble my way through this journey of life, I find that nothing is linear. Everything goes in circles. (No wonder I'm dizzy so much of the time!) No matter where you start, you're going to come around. Beginnings and ends are attached. One leads to the other. Whether you start at the beginning or the end, you will naturally find your way to the other.

Which means, since I can't have a new child, I guess I'll start a new book. A Bed & Breakfast story. A story of a woman who's alone, she's never married, she runs a bed & breakfast that she inherited from an aunt. She has a dog. And a broken heart. And there's this man. An artist. He visits the bed & breakfast twice a year. Year after year. He has secrets. He's known her before...

Should I do it? Should I start this book? It's just going to lead to another The End. To bittersweet emptiness. These new people are going to pack up and leave me at some point. I'll be sad again. Alone.

And then there will be another new beginning. Because that's what life promises.

Right?

If Your Toaster Talks to You, Run! (Suzanne Forster)