Car Buying Horrors (Patricia Potter)

Too many things to do, too little time to do it. The story of my life and, I suspect, everyone else’s.

While I’m waiting for my copy-edited manuscript to be returned to me for yet the 100th reading, I’m frantically trying to catch up with life. There’s a synopsis to be written, a garden to be planted, a trip to plan, and more drawers to be emptied. There’s neglected dogs to pamper, and a mother to tend. There’s house repairs that need to be made.

There’s a car to be purchased.

Now this is a really big deal for me, and I need recommendations, suggestions, etc.

I don’t buy a car often. In fact, my current car – a Ford Taurus --is going on fourteen years. It’s only the fourth car I’ve had (one of which was lost prematurely to fire). I don’t like buying cars. I don’t like haggling. I don’t like bargaining. I don’t like being taken as a female simpleton. And I like my car. I really, really like it. It has most of the features I want: a combination lock which is handy when you’re accustomed to losing keys and locking yourself out.

I also like its climate control (perfect), and I like the sound system, but most of all I like the way it turns on a dime. I don’t want bucket seats, and it seems all cars have bucket seats now. I don’t want the clutch on the floor. I want it near the steering wheel as it has been on my car for umpteen years.

Now I have to admit I do like some of today’s features, particularly the satellite radio, and the GPS and thigamajig thing that shows what’s behind you. I think I would like the heated and cooled seats. I like the better gas mileage.

But I’m still reluctant to give up my Taurus. It’s my buddy. It’s familiar.
It’s comfortable. It doesn’t have a dashboard like a 747. It doesn’t object to dog hair.

I was, however, going to go through with it last week. Until, I was offered a measly $750 for my beloved Taurus. An insult. I stalked out of the dealership when they made the offer, pity in their eyes.

The next one did the same, only they upped it to one thousand. I stalked out again. After all, it’s still a pretty good little car, even if the gas mileage could be improved and it smells like dog.

I would probably wait for years to buy a new car, at least until they came out with one that had an mpg of at least a hundred miles a gallon, but my family is insisting. They desperately want me to buy me a new car, whether I want one or not. They sneer at my existing one. My mother, particularly, worries herself into a frenzy whenever I drive over to the nursing home, which is every night. If I’m two minutes late, she’s frantic. She’s convinced something has happened to the car and, therefore, me. For her sake, and her sake only, I finally agreed.

So I finally said I would. I’ve been delaying it for months, though. I’m on deadline. I’m waiting for the next sale. I’m waiting for the next hybrid. I want to find the best possible gas mileage. But now I’m trapped. I promised and now I must make it good. Reluctantly.

I looked at the new Taurus. It’s much bigger, doesn’t turn on a dime and, as I said, has enough buttons to scare off an airline pilot. But what drove me off was the fact that the Ford place gave me a price for the Taurus that was $4,000 higher than the one they gave my brother for exactly the same car (he bought it; I didn’t). I could go back and insist on the same price, but I don’t trust them
(for other reasons as well.) I don't like their business practices.

I went to Toyoto, because it’s within walking distance, but they’re the ones who insulted my Taurus. This weekend, I’m going to check out some other models. Then I’ll have to steel myself to fight the good fight. I hate it because I always feel I could do just a little better. I hate the (purposeful according to a carbuying site) wait while they try to figure how much they can jack up the price. I hate to leave after they give me their “lowest” price, then call me an hour later with an even lower one. And I greatly resent the fact that the complete warranty for most of them is only 30,000 miles. It was 50,000 for my Taurus. I would have thought it would go up. Not down.

Anyway, I need all the help and suggestions I can get. I want a midsize, 'cause I love traveling and like,even more, feeling safe. What’s your favorite car? And why? And how do you haggle for the best price? I could enlist my brother, of course, but I really, really don’t want to do that. I am woman, and can certainly buy my own car. I just want to make sure I have all the tools to get the best deal.

I figure with my car buying record, this one will last forever, so all suggestions gratefully welcome.

Roots

That’s Towneley Hall. Ye Olde “Ancestral Pile,” located in Lancashire, England. Family on my mother’s side lived on that land from at least 1200 (or thereabouts) right up until the late 19th Century. It stands as proof that family legends sometimes turn out to be true.

In the late 1800s, when the male line of Towneleys had died out, a search was mounted in America for heirs. The family, being stalwartly Catholic, was often out of favor, and many of them emigrated in the 1600s. Since I was a child, I’d heard about the solicitor who found his way to teensy Henry, Tennessee and announced that my great-grandmother was entitled to the estate. Which would need a lot of work, by the way.

Being dirt poor, the family declined. Turns out other descendants had previously declined, saving one man who left his heiress wife and their several children to set out for England, only to be washed overboard and never heard from again. Clearly a doomed legacy. Fortunately, the town of Burnley purchased the house, restored it, and maintains it to this day.

I visited Towneley Hall a few years ago and verified what I had learned from family members who had done extensive genealogical research. It made me think I’d found a possible answer to something that had puzzled me for most of my life: Why have I always been so intensely drawn to England?

I first went there as a graduate student on a scholarship to study Shakespeare in Stratford-upon-Avon. But the moment I stepped off the plane in London, I had the sudden and overwhelming sensation that I had come home. Odd, that. A Navy brat, I’d been on the move all my life. I never had a home for more than two or three years and didn’t expect to settle down, ever. Maybe the feeling came from being in love with Shakespeare since high school and devoting years of study to English literature. That must be it.

But since then, I’ve visited England five or six times, and always, that same sensation rushes through me. Home. Belong. Part of this country.

Could some genetic link have been developed, through centuries of ancestors, in my DNA? It wasn’t only the Towneleys and their predecessors who tied me to the land and its history. The other side of my mom’s family, the de Vesci (later Veasey, Veazey, and other name variants) family had arrived in England before or with William the Conqueror. We have deep roots there.

I’d have scoffed at the DNA theory, except that so many other connections–-scores of them, large and small--bind me to the country and the ancestors I’ve been reading about. One trivial example. A friend once remarked that in my books, I often have a major character who is a “collector.” Art. Antiquities. That sort of thing. Startled, I did a mental review. Wow. Lots of them! Even my very first book features a collector.

But I’ve never been one myself. I’ve never collected anything except, well, dust bunnies. And while I accumulate stuff (like canvas tote-bags), I own nothing of interest or value.

However . . . my 19th-Century ancestor, Charles Towneley, was a devoted collector whose antiquities now form an important part of the British Museum collection. Here he is in his London home, depicted in a “tribute” portrait that shows him fictionally surrounded by his important contributions to the museum.

Last time I was in London, my buddy Alicia Rasley and I visited the charming Sir John Soames museum. And by sheerest coincidence, it was featuring a special exhibit of artifacts from the collection of my great-great-great-great-something Charles Towneley.

I’ve also had a life-long interest in astronomy and space exploration, and except for my notable lack of talent in math, I might have tried for a career in the field. Maybe Sir Richard Towneley, 17th-century astronomer, inventor, and theorist passed on some of his desire, if not his ability, to me.

Anyhow, I’m thinking about this tonight because–-wondrous to tell–-Alicia and I will be making our fourth England trip together in October. Not to Lancashire or Northumberland, though, where most of my ancestors settled. We’ve secured a cottage in Glastonbury, “Cradle of Christianity” and Arthurian legend and all things New Age-y. Perhaps someone there, more attuned than I am to such matters, can clarify the spiritual bond between me and whatever it is that keeps drawing me inexorably home.

Lately, friends have been discussing “place” and how some of us know where we belong, while others of us are still looking for the place where we ought to be. I’m one of those who knew, since I first saw Coronado decades ago, that I was meant to live here. Yes, it took most of those decades to actually settle here, but I made it! And I’m happy. And home. For now.

Except for the invisible magnets that keep pulling me back to England.

How about you? What made you choose where you live? Does some other landscape call to you? Where would you be if you could settle in another place?

Daydream Believing (Maggie)

What a beautiful day it was yesterday. I decided to start my day with a nice long walk, because it's such a good way to clear my head, focus my thoughts, relax my mind. Sometimes solutions to problems just float to me while I'm walking. Sometimes, all I get out of it is a bit of exercise and plenty of distractions from those problems. Daydreaming has a way of doing that. Either way, walking is a good mental health break, and I was needing one, so off I went.

My goal was Solon Pond, some distance from my house. (My total walking distance was a bit over 7 miles.) I took my camera with me, and almost as soon as I hit the pavement, I found my first subjects. A pair of turkey vultures had found a poor unfortunate beaver that had been hit. They posed nicely for me, before flying away. I love vultures, I really do. So unappreciated and misunderstood, but so good, really. They devour waste materials no one else wants to deal with, and their bodies purify everything as it moves through them. A vulture could eat enough botulism to wipe out an entire human village. By the time they passed it out the, uh, other end, it would be so pure it could be used as an antiseptic. Their Latin name translates to "Golden Purifier." I did feel sad when I glanced at the beaver, though. Female, fat, and with milk in her breasts. She was either expecting babies, or left some orphaned. I'm worried about them if that's the case.

Daydreams instigated: me hunting, finding and rescuing a litter of beaver babies. Oh, and me taking all the garbage I'm being served up lately, and somehow spinning it into gold.

The vultures left, and I walked on. Further along the way I saw lots of things to shoot. Apple trees in blossom, old stone foundations left where houses once stood, the creek that runs near my house. I whispered as I gazed at the creek, "I don't even know your name. I wish I did."

Daydream instigated: Me kayaking the length of the creek and having a blast!

Anyway, onward I went. I met two fabulous horses and they were happy to pose. The female came right up to me, but I wished I had brought her some sugar, because I got the distinct impression she was hoping for a treat. I don't really dream about owning horses. Been there, done that, and it's like indentured service. You don't own horses, they own you. But it might be fun to go riding sometime.

I found a kite in a ditch, and rescued it, untangling its knotted string as I walked on. I remembered seeing some kids flying a kite a week or so ago, in the backyard of a home I had already passed, so I kept the kite with me to return on the way back.

Onward I went, past spectacular vistas, fascinating swampland, an old abandoned house. And finally I saw Solon Pond glistening in the brilliant sunshine like liquid diamonds. And there at the old church on the shore, was a man doing lawn work.

I stopped to talk to him, because I love that pond, and I want to live on its shoreline, and I want to kayak in its water, and I want this house that sits alongside it, and I've wanted these things for a year and a half now. Just then, I wanted to know more about it. Well, the fellow turned out to be a member of the town's historical society, and one of the first things he told me, without prompting, was that the name of the creek that runs by my house is "Rocky Bottom." =) One wish granted.

Daydreams instigated: That's how it works. All my wishes can be granted just this easily. I wished to know the creek's name, and a few miles later, someone told it to me without being asked. All my dreams are going to come true that way. That's a daydream in itself!

Anyway, the man then started telling me some of the history of the pond, which was once owned by his own grandfather, and is now owned by a nice man from New Jersey. He pointed to the man's home, and said he has opened the pond to public use--fishing and so on--because it's healthier for the pond and the community that way. But, my new friend (I think his name was Dave) went on to inform me that he's fairly sure the pond is for sale again.

Daydreams instigated: I could fill a book with them! I buy the pond. I build a little out-building and stock it with canoes and kayaks to rent to folks. I clear a picnic area. I create a gorgeous garden where people can hold weddings. I buy that cool house on the shore to go along with it. I might even create a small campground in the wilds on the backside of the place. Ohhhhh, the daydreams!

Does anyone have about $400,000 they could lend me? =) Actually, it's been on the market for several years, so I bet it will keep until I come into my fortune. I've always dreamed of having a private lake (and at 40 acres, this pond is pretty close to being a lake.) I've dreamed of it, even before I came here and began lusting after this particular puddle. And I must be getting closer, because it's suddenly for sale!

Oh, I may not end up owning this particular body of water, but I love that the possibility has suddenly been proven real. This could be doable. I could probably borrow the money now, with the lake as collateral, should I so desire. What a thought!

Ah, yes, walking and dreaming, and seeing all kinds of potential. I talked to Dave for quite a while, and finally turned and headed back toward home. On the way, I attached the rescued kite to the fencepost near the house where I think it belonged. Between the walk itself, all the stops for picture-taking, and my long conversation with Dave, my little adventure took three hours. I enjoyed most of it, except when the stillness and peace in my head got interrupted once or twice with thoughts about things I don't have, things that are important to me and seem to be taking forever to come to fruition. I know better than to focus on those for very long, but damn, you have to have the patience of a freaking saint for some of these things. And the more important something is to me, the longer it seems to take!

Lately, it's been harder to think about those things with anything but sadness and impatience, and when that's the case, I know it's better not to think about them at all. So I have my occasional meltdowns, and then I turn my attention elsewhere and try really hard to ignore the stuff that makes me sad. I figure I spend about 90% of my time upbeat and happy and aligned and positive, looking forward to things I have coming with joyous expectation and excitement. I spend about 10% indulging in hissy fits and meltdowns and crying jags because they're taking too long to get here. (Hint: they can't get here when you're noticing that they're not here yet. They can only get to you when you get aligned with knowing they will and being so good at feeling as if they already have, that you don't really need them anymore. Then they show up. I know, it's kind of a dirty trick, isn't it?)

Anyway, I'm human. I lose it from time to time and stomp my feet and bitch about how no one is giving me what I really, really deserve. (And why should they? It's no one's job to give me what I want, it's my job to go get it for myself.)

Still, I pop right back after wallowing for anywhere from a few hours to a day or so. I think that's a pretty good ratio, 90% aligned, 10% whiny-ass. It's the best I can do, really.

Walking helps me stop trying so hard, and just relax and float wherever my feet take me. It helps me free my mind to daydream, and that's always a good thing.

What do you guys do when you need to just let go of life for awhile?

Maggie

Dear Reader

Hi all. Quick post today. I'm traveling - been to three cities in three days trying to cram as many things as possible in a very few days - and revising two books at the same time.

I'm on my way to Book Expo America - the largest book buying event I've ever attended. Maybe the largest in the world. Seems like it anyway. It takes an entire day just to walk the aisles and booths that normally spread over many city blocks and on multiple floors. This year the event is in Los Angeles. My honey has never been to the city that once seemed like my home away from home and so, in the midst of doing business, I'm going to try to show him one or two favorite places in L.A. Any of you Southern Californians have any suggestions?

This morning, as I signed on, I found a letter from my editor awaiting me. She needs a reader letter for the front of my November release by Friday. Uh huh. I'm working every moment I have to get the revisions she needs on same book into her by Friday.

So...back to you guys. How much effect do those letters have at the beginning of the books. You know the ones, they start out Dear Reader, and they're a message to you from the author usually with some little inside scoop on the book or its' writing. Do you read them? Do they make a difference to you in the buying of the book? Do they help you enjoy the book better? I don't want to campaign to loose the letters if they're a good thing. Just don't have time to spend on something that makes no difference and means nothing to no one.

Next time I'll share with you some of the pictures I've taken in the last couple of days. For now, have a great week!

Help Me Pick a Blurb for My Story! (Suzanne Forster)

The good news is I finally have a new book coming out! The bad news is I have two different blurbs and can’t figure out which one to use. I’ve asked friends, family and fellow writers, but so far, it’s a split decision. I was getting ready to toss a coin when a bright idea hit me. Suzanne, take your dilemma straight to the people.

THE PRIVATE CONCIERGE is officially a November ’08 release from Mira Books, but could show up on the shelves as early as the last week of October. Meanwhile, here’s a quick look at the story. Lane Chandler runs a private concierge service for high-profile clients. She’s risked everything to escape her past and make her business a success, but now her clients are being targeted by career-wrecking scandals, and worse, murder. Rick Bayless is the one man from her past Lane would prefer never to see again. He’s the former cop who put her in juvenile hall at fifteen—and Lane’s very own private scandal.

That’s a thumbnail of the story. The two blurbs are below, and I’d love to know which one you think I should use in my promotional efforts for THE PRIVATE CONCIERGE. If you’d leave a comment on this blog, telling me which you one prefer, I’d be ever so appreciative. And just for fun, I’m also running a contest with some very cool prizes on my web site. One grand prize winner and three runners up will be selected at random from those who voted for the winning blurb. If you’d like to enter, click on the link or cut and paste it into your browser: www.suzanneforster.com. All contest details can be found on the web site.

BLURB #1:

THERE’S NOTHING PRIVATE ABOUT MURDER…

L.A.’s rich and powerful rely on Lane Chandler’s company, The Private Concierge, to anticipate their every whim…and to guarantee unparalleled discretion. But then one of Lane’s celebrity patrons is found murdered in the most undignified manner imaginable. In rapid succession, three other prominent clients become embroiled in separate scandals, thanks to what looks like a security breach of TPC’s communication systems.

As word gets out, clients drop Lane like last week’s gossip. She’s bent on keeping TPC’s name out of the papers, but when former LAPD vice cop Rick Bayless starts nosing around, she has much more to worry about than bad PR. Rick knows about Lane’s shadowy past, and he’s certain she’s hiding new secrets. With no other options, Lane must face a dangerous conspirator who knows more about her every move than she does.

BLURB #2:

She was Lucy Cox, a runaway who was forced into the oldest profession at a tender age. He was the vice cop who posed as a customer, and put her in juvenile hall. He’s been haunted by her ever since. And she will never forget the humiliation of handcuffs, police cars and jail cells. Or the man who changed the course of her life.

Today she is Lane Chandler, a new woman and legitimate business tycoon. Her private concierge service is prized by high-profile clients across the country. Today he is a ruined man. And destiny is about to put them on another collision course.

His best friend, an all-star pitcher, dies mysteriously and scandalously, and three other prominent personalities are embroiled in scandals that ruin their careers and their lives. The police dismiss the incidents as unrelated. But he sees what the police cannot. The one thing that links them is her … The Private Concierge

So, there you have them. If you’d like to comment on why you prefer one over the other that would be great. The more feedback the better. If not, just let me know your pick. The blurb that gets the most votes will be featured on my web site and in my various promotional projects. And who knows, it might even show up on the back of the book!

Thank you and good luck!!

Suz

What to Write (Anne Stuart)

So here I am, spinning my wheels. I've been circling the new book, SILVER FALLS, like a suspicious Rottweiler sniffing at the butt of a Doberman. I've written chapters, tossed them, notebooks full of notes, I understand my characters, and I find the story fascinating. It was inspired by the fact that Ted Bundy lived with a woman and her daughter during part of his killing spree and never touched them. And I wondered what that would be like for a woman, living with a monster and not knowing.
And then of course as I made notes and thought about it I considered that maybe the man she was living with wasn't the killer after all (and no, he won't be the hero). And the daughter is spunky, the heroine cool (tall, redheaded, sturdy, a photographer), the hero is troubled (brother to the man suspected of murder), the setting dark and gothic-y (Pacific Northwest town called SILVER FALLS where it rains all the time).
But it's fighting me.
In the meantime, I have an ICE book that's been begging for attention. I had been all set to write that directly after FIRE AND ICE, and then we thought maybe I should write something different, something new.
But FIRE AND ICE has done extremely well, and I need to tell Finn MacGowan's story (I left him a prisoner in the jungles of Colombia with everyone thinking he might be dead). His father died of self-starvation in prison in Ireland, and Finn is charming and sexy and filled with a deep anger he never shows. And don't even get me started on Mahmoud, who's going to grow up and have to deal with his childhood as a soldier.
On top of all this, I have a deadline.
So I've got to hunker down, ignore everything else in my life (happily) and figure out what to write. Can I work on two at the same time? SILVER FALLS in the morning and ICE in the afternoon? SF for one week, ICE on alternating weeks? Try to write a very rough draft of one, put it aside and write a very rough draft of the other, then decide?
Aaargh.
I suppose I have to be responsible and a grown-up. But you know, to be a writer you have to be in touch with that stubborn, rebellious dreamer who stared out the classroom window rather than listen to the teacher droning on. You do what you have to do, not what you should do. Except what the hell do you do when you want to do both?

Have you guys ever been stuck with trying to choose between two things you love? If I write SILVER FALLS I'll be ignoring the ICE book, and vice versa. Aaargh.

How do you choose? Or do you just do what you're supposed to do? Help!

Memorial Day

The American tradition of Memorial Day began more than 100 years ago. It was at the end of a brutal war, a war in which brother fought brother and the best of friends became the worst of enemies. It was the Civil War, one of the worst wars ever fought by the people of this nation, and it was fought on our own soil. At the end of this war, family members of the many soldiers slain in battle would visit the grave sites of their fallen relatives or friends and decorate their graves with flowers.

On May 5, 1868, General John Logan proclaimed this day a holiday through his General Order no. 11. The day was entitled Decoration Day. Decoration day was first observed on May 30, 1868. The northern states celebrated this day every year, but the southern states celebrated a day similar to this on a different day until sometime after World War I.

In 1882, the name Decoration day was changed to Memorial Day, and in 1971, Memorial Day was declared a national holiday to be held on the last Monday of May every year.
From DCPages.com




I am the wind you cannot breathe, until I touch your face.
Once you feel essence of this simple thought, look pass the complex termed dead to believe.
I am always with you.

From “Faith” by Luke Wilbur

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all
sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step - and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third - a face not child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful
yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you - I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

An excerpt from "Leaves of Grass" by poet Walt Whitman, who served as a nurse in military hospitals during the Civil War

The Ultimate Pack Rat (Patricia Potter)

The book is in, the revisions done, and I’m relaxing for the first time in two months. Well, kinda.

So much to be done. So much neglected in the said two months. Bills to be paid, decisions on what to do with my mother’s rapidly declining CD income. A mulched garden with no flowers. A proposal I should do for a new book, but no writing energy left.

I decided, instead, to attack my closets (a favorite of writers when in a quandary or writing block). Trying to choose clothes to donate to one of the several charities turned out to be a dilemma equal to fruitless quest a year ago to reduce the number of books in my possession. I think, after a two day search for expendable books, I surrendered about two out of 2,000 volumes.

There are two problems, though, for me. The first is weight fluctuation. I regret admitting that my weight fluctuates between three sizes. I am now in the mid size and heading down toward the low size. But one never knows, and so I’m reluctant to surrender anything. Weight tends to go up during deadline time when I live on corn beef hash and snacks. Then it goes down during recuperating time.

Someone once told me you should discard anything you haven’t worn in two years. I have stuff I haven’t worn in ten, maybe twenty years. Gee, it looked good on me then. That day will come again, I vow. Better keep it.

I have t-shirts from every trip I ever took, often sweat shirts too. My choice of souvenirs. Twenty-five years of t-shirts. Can’t give those up, and the memories. Even if they do fill my entire dresser. Besides, who wants a ten-year old t-shirt. Besides me, that is.

Then there are my good dresses. I admit to you, only, that I wear a ‘really’ nice dress – a cocktail dress or gown – once a year, and that’s at the Romance Writers of America annual convention. I wear one to my publisher’s party and one to the Awards Ceremony. I keep hunting for the perfect ‘really nice’ dress. You never know when you’re going to win, although I’m the Susan Lucci of romance writers. Seven times a finalist and never a winner. Maybe I just don’t have the right dress. Better get another, a lucky one. But I must keep the others in reserve.

Obviously from the comment above, I like casual clothes. In fact, I love casual clothes. Slacks and shirts, but recently I’ve turned to jeans. But there’s lots of slacks of varying sizes, and you never know when you might need a quick pair. Better keep them all.

There’s really, really old stuff. No one would be seen dead in those fashions, but maybe a vintage clothes dealer. . . Hmmmmm.

Two days shot, and I have two boxes filled. I need ten boxes filled. But I’ve come to the conclusion that I am the ultimate pack rat. I loathe giving up something I just might need in the future.

My question to you: Any suggestions on how to cure this particular malady. Before my house collapses under the weight of its contents?

Re-Entry (LynnK)

After nearly three months in a world not my own, I seem to be returning to earth. I’m hoping so, anyway. And like the space capsules I’m old enough to remember, I landed in the water.

Since early March, I’ve scarcely gone anywhere or done anything. Singing wasn’t painful, so I managed to rehearse and perform in a concert last Saturday night. Once a week, I staggered out for groceries and other essential errands. Otherwise, I had all the mobility of a cave drawing.

Until Monday, when I wrestled my too, too solid flesh into a bathing suit and dragged myself to water aerobics. The long stretch of virtual immobility (not much room to move in a 500-sq-ft apartment) had packed on at least fifteen pounds, and unlike my skin, my clothes won’t stretch to accommodate them. I needed exercise. Baaaad.

Krissie, another fan of water aerobics, can testify to the benefits. Even a body in pain can move freely and without undue stress in the water. But she lives a long distance from the nearest pool, and the winter in Vermont is frigid. I have no such problem, the heated pool being a mile away and winter temperatures plunging to, oh, the high 50's. Even so, I can’t bear what is, for me, the intolerable cold of a Coronado winter. I hadn’t done aerobics since October.

Nearly all the Aqua-Naughties were there, ostensibly glad to see me again, and there was lots of joking around. I did more moving in one hour than I’d done in months. Muscles that must have thought themselves retired for life were suddenly performing frog leaps, cross-country, pendulums, roly-polies, and sinkers.

On Tuesday, I started paying the price for my exertions. Every part of my body was protesting the pain. Who knew hair could hurt?! But Wednesday I went back, and yesterday I hurt even more.

Nonetheless, I’ll be there again tonight. This pain, unlike the agony produced by the damnable Shingles, is productive. And I’m weary of being the helpless victim of a mean-spirited virus. Outa my way, herpes zoster. I have things to do.

I’m also feeling miserably self-absorbed, which I detest. So many of my friends are dealing with serious problems involving the people they most love–husbands, children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters and parents–where I have only my own pain to grieve about. Not that I haven’t been through the other, excepting offspring, of which I have none. Now I have only a cat, who is doing just fine.

But resentful, from time to time, whenever I clip his claws or clean his ears. Not because of those things, though. He mourns, without exactly being aware of it, the loss of the treat that always used to follow these assaults on his person.

Anyssinians have a tendency to develop gingivitis, and to help combat it, I rewarded him (directly after claw-clipping, etc.) with what looked something like a small rawhide chew stick given to dogs. These ones taste like chicken–I’m taking the package’s word for that–and are fully digestible. The cat liked them a lot. After demolishing one, he’d stretch out like a pasha and give his ragged claws a manicure.


So naturally, about three years ago, the pet stores stopped carrying the chewies. I tried every place in town, pretty much. There was a similar product, someone told me, that I could order on-line. But by the time they added enormous shipping and handling charges, a package cost three times its regular price. I do supply premium cat food, Petromalt, teeth-brushing, and the like, but I couldn’t bring myself to pay extortion rates for pig-in-a-poke chewies.

This only became an issue once a month, when the cat permitted me to groom him and then waited with a hopeful expression for his reward. My explanations cut no mustard with him. He’d proceed to the kitchen cabinet where the treasure had formerly been stored and sit there looking from it to me. Me to it. It to me.

Then he'd go to his favorite perch and fix his gaze on me with the unmistakable message of an aggrieved Abycat:

"Ah, Lynn, you are a great disappointment to me.”

Eventually, in the way of cats, he forgot. And so it went for a couple of years, with him enduring the indignities of claw-clipping and ear-cleaning without any reward except petting, of which he gets plenty anyway.

Then . . . a miracle. Yesterday I ventured out for long-postponed errands, moving with all the grace of Robbie the Robot, and at Petco, I found NuBone chewy thingies! Not the same brand or appearance, but they seem designed for the same purposes.

Will the cat like them? Give me a look of tolerant approval? I dunno. They’re still in the car, which I had to park a long way away. By the time I hauled in the perishables, I was knackered.

He senses something, though. The vibration of impending treats has perked up his ears. He’s fixing me with one of his “get-to-it” looks. Something wonderful this way comes.

And I’m having the same experience. Slowly but steadily, I’m starting to feel better. I have a fun trip in July to look forward to. If not for the (semi)-rigorous dieting and exercise between now and then, I might be positively cheerful.

Really, I ought to fulfill ineffable cat-longings by going out into the night and retrieving chewies from the car. And I would, if I had the vaguest notion where it was parked.

The spirit is willing, the body is semi-functional, but the mind is still lost in space.

Passages (Maggie)

I apologize for my post being so late today and also for it being rather brief. It's been a very difficult couple of days. My daughter Jessica miscarried this week, and the entire family is grieving. I hate seeing my daughter in pain, as any mom would. If only our offspring came with a little remote control device that parents could use to transfer hurts from them, to ourselves. I'd use it in a heartbeat. But that not being possible, all we can do is continue to love and support each other. And we're fortunate that in this family, that's a given.

I have always believed that souls choose their families. Some choose more challenging ones than others. Some choose beautiful parents, like my Jessie and her husband Ben. Sometimes, something goes wrong with the physical body slowly growing in the womb, though, and I really believe that those little souls simply withdraw when that happens, and then try again later. So in my mind, there is no loss here. Only a delay. Still, it's a sad time for me and my clan.

But as always in the case in life, there are good things unfolding too. Last night, my fourthborn daughter Stacie graduated from nursing school, and we all gathered at the ceremony to cheer her on. She has worked harder than anyone I've ever met, toward this wonderful goal. She's held down a demanding full time job while attending classes full time too! She's ambitious, and brilliant, not to mention gorgeous, caring, and giving, and wonderful. Stacie has already landed her first job, at a local hospital. She's at the beginning of a whole new life, and I know she'll be a wonderful nurse.

Honestly, I've been blessed with my girls. They're such a gift to the world, they really are. Lisa's at a new beginning, re-entering college at summer's end. Katie is at a new beginning, moving into a new home almost as we speak. Jena's nearing an ending that is also a beginning, as her own pregnancy progresses toward it's end, with a brand new baby due in August. And I'm in the temporary stasis between ending and beginning, as the reconstruction of my home marches slowly on.

So this week my family has been through endings and beginnings. But I think life is a constant series of these, isn't it? Little ones, and big ones, and gigantic life altering ones. Sad ones and happy ones. Scary ones and wonderful ones. Cycles, unending, but spiraling ever onward.

And so it goes.

Maggie

Masonry is Like Baking a Cake (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I've learned yet another new trade. I now know how to put another brick in the wall. And another. And yet another. And I can grout as well as the best of them. Grout to seal bricks in the wall. Grout to take the place of bricks. Most importantly, there's an art to grouting to conceal blemishes. That's the best part. You know, in wall making, you can use grout in such a way that you cover up all your bad spots.

Kind of like cake baking. You mix the batter - much like you mix grout. First the powder goes in. Then the liquid. Then you have to use a little muscle to get the two to coincide in a moist paste. But it can't be too moist. The cake would come out runny and when you serve it it wouldn't stand up to it's job. It would run all over the plate and become pudding. Not cake. And it can't be too dry, either. That makes a cake taste like sand - and grout, too, I'm sure, not that I actually tasted it.

I skipped the baking part of the cake and, once the batter was made, went right on to the frosting part. Applying grout is identical to frosting a cake. Even the tool you use - while bigger - is like the tool I use to frost cakes. You have to apply enough frosting. You have to get it to stick to the sides (I always do layer cakes) and you have to smooth it. And just like with the wall, with a cake, you can cover blemishes with more frosting! Ever do a layer cake where the one layer is thinner on one side than the other. What do you do? You glob a bunch of frosting on that side of the cake in between the layers to build up the lacking layer. Right? It's always worked for me! That's kind of how it was with the grout. I was leery at first, but I caught on soon enough.

And through it all, I had my inspiration. Remember Pink Floyd? Another Brick in the Wall. Now that was a piece of art. A masterpiece. I've blogged about it here before. It amazes me that as a kid I listened to The Wall and thought it was great rock and roll. Today I listen to it and get so much more out of it on so many levels. It's all about human suffering. About the experience of being human. About our struggles and our dreams and how our dreams sometimes lead us places where we don't want to be. And how we keep going anyway, putting just another brick in the wall.

But I'm here to tell you that when you keep putting those bricks in the wall, eventually you have a really cool wall. And while we often use them as negative metaphors, walls aren't always bad things. Could you imagine sleeping at night with one of your bedroom walls missing? Say the one that goes outside? Or how about in the bathroom? You kind of want walls there. At least most of us do. This wall that my honey and I built was in the garage. Our lovely cottage has some strangeities. One of them was the garage. It only had three walls. It's not a carport. It's a fully beamed and framed garage with stucco and garage door and all appearances of being secure. But the wall that connects the garage to the patio was really only about a three foot bit of masonry with six feet of open air on either side. Which meant that every time we went anywhere anyone could walk around the side of the house and take anything they wanted out of the garage. And the second thing it meant is that weather - all kinds - can get in the garage and wreak havoc with our things. Not anymore. We built a wall. It protects us. It protects our things. It's keeping us more safe and secure. It rained last night and my husband and I stood in our garage and marveled at the dryness. What a blessing that was! Funny how you learn to appreciate things so much, funny how little things matter so much, when you stop and look at what life has given you. And what it's taken away.

Cakes can be bad for you, too. They're not really nutritious and too much cake can hurt your health. But can you imagine a world with no cakes? All weddings in the world without cakes? Or birthdays without candles on the cake?

I guess my point is - yeah, I promise, I really do have one! - is that I've learned yet another life lesson as I learn yet another skill. And that is that being open hearted and trusting is a good thing. But sometimes you have to build walls, too, to protect that which is most important.

And now I have yet another question for you. Is there a difference between saying "Love you" and "I love you"?

(A bit of housekeeping: Mary M., Darla, and Lorna - I used versions of your thoughts regarding joking in the book! If you'll send me your addresses, privately (ttquinn@tarataylorquinn.com) I'll get copies of Sara's Son out to you!!! Thanks everyone for the input! By the way, the book this appears in is called The Holiday Visitor and is out in November.)

My Very First Protest Rally! (Suzanne Forster)

I can’t believe I’m going to a protest rally. Actually, I’m not just going, I’m organizing it—and with only two days’ notice! Somehow before tomorrow at high noon I have to make legible signs, find red, white and blue balloons, rent fold-up chairs, preferably with shade umbrellas for protestors suffering heat stroke from the scorching weather, and track down a bullhorn. And that’s just the short list.

I also need to find people who’ll drive around the block in cars, yelling encouragement to the protestors. And most important, I have to deliver as many live bodies as possible to the event, and then somehow find the courage to dance around and shout inspirational words about democracy in action, hoping to whip everyone, including me, into a frenzy of enthusiasm.

Just a little pressure! But fun too, and fortunately, I’ll mean every word of it because it’s for a great cause. I mentioned a few blogs ago that I’d volunteered to help with one of the primary campaigns. I also mentioned what a rollercoaster ride it had been. Well, nothing has changed. If anything, it gets crazier by the day, and this rally was one of those last-minute brainchild’s that someone in a state so far away it seems like another planet thought would be a great idea—a national protest rally in all the major cities on May 20th, which is primary day in Oregon and Kentucky. And I have to tell you, it really did sound like a good idea at the time … two days ago!

So, here I am, running around looking for Fourth of July balloons and fold-up chairs. And now you know why today’s blog is so short. Next week, I’ll tell you how the rally went, if I survive the heat stroke.

If you’re anywhere near Los Angeles and you happen to be driving by NBC Burbank Studios tomorrow, honk or wave. I’ll be the one with the bullhorn.

Suz

British Loner Heroes (Anne Stuart)

Yup, you heard me right. We've been discussing whether British heroes are actually loners, or whether that's a mistaken American fantasy and that British men, historically, have always been based in community. Jo Beverley and I argue about absolutely everything (I adore her and she's used to me ) and she posits that the British are community-minded, and that loner heroes are unbelievable (British ones, that is).

So we've been arguing back and forth (we argue so much we don't even agree what we're arguing about, all in the friendliest manner). She thinks the British attitude toward a loner is that he's a weirdo.

So I've been obsessed with coming up with British heroes, written by English authors, who are loners. So far I've got James Mason in his early British roles (the Seventh Veil in particular), Heathcliff, Rochester, Colin's father in A SECRET GARDEN, Sara Crewe's father's friend in A LITTLE PRINCESS). There are also the Georgette Heyer heroes who, while surrounded by people, are very alone (Vidal in Devil's Cub, his father (who has one good friend), most of the drawling rakes).

Other people have come up with James Bond (of course!) and the Hugh Grant hero in About a Boy. And Clive Owen seems perfect to play the ultimate isolated British loner -- with dark brooding thoughts and incredible sex appeal. Think of other British actors: Alan Rickman, Daniel Day-Lewis, Ralph Fiennes. Do they strike you as the kind to sit around the pub with their mates? (In fact, they probably do, but their public persona clashes with the notion).


So give me some more ammo, people. Let me say "Jo, you ignorant slut ..." so she can reply "Krissie, you ignorant slut ..." and we can continue our cheerful arguments. Give me some more British loner heroes (created by the British).

Oh, and while you're at it, go buy Jo's fabulous new book. Even if she don't know squat about English heroes (did I really say that?) she sure can write a great one.

Now About That Memory . . . And Dog Stuff (Patricia Potter)

I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but my memory has gone to the dogs.

I almost forgot about writing this blog but then a reminder came this morning. My fellow blogsters know me well. Last week I was reminded as well but I still managed to forget until late Saturday morning.

Okay, everyone is entitled to an occasional lapse.

Except in the past week, I forgot a doctor’s appointment, forgot to do my mother’s laundry (it was in a bag sitting in the backseat of a car for two days) and almost forgot my critique group meeting (which has met on Friday morning forever). Then there was the cable bill . . .

Part of this is due to feverish revisions. Although my editor miraculously had few of her own, a re-read of my manuscript dictated much more. For instance, I forgot the name of the villain, the color of the heroine’s hair and the background of my hero. I always tinker, tinker, ticker with the manuscript at different stages of its travels along the production road.

Okay, maybe that explains how I forgot my niece’s graduation, and graduation cards – and money – for my nephew. Or how I forgot to call my plumbing buddy to tell him the commode didn’t work. I don’t even have Lynn’s excuse for a non-functioning ‘necessary’, as they used to call it.

To prod my failing memory, I studiously make notes on my huge big calendar that’s almost as big as my desktop: occasions, appointments, deadlines, etc. It doesn’t help much, though, when it’s covered by 500 vividly marked manuscript pages. Thus was the medical appointment was buried.

It seems I forgot to feed the dogs, too, but they always tell me about my failings. In no uncertain terms. It’s not easy to write when three wet noses keep nudging you.

And then there are the other interruptions. I was happily making changes this afternoon when my neighbor rang my bell. He’s a very good neighbor, and we share dog sitting chores until his Charlie died last year. He (my neighbor) had a beautiful, well-mannered sweet Australian Shepherd in tow. He’d found her running loose, darting back and forth across the street. He wanted to know whether I knew from whence she came.

I didn’t, and we conferred for thirty minutes outside, hoping someone would come along looking for the dog. No one did. Wanting to get back to my revisions which are due Tuesday, I suggested he take the dog for a walk. Maybe he would run into someone looking for her. Thirty minutes later he returned to my door. No luck on the walk, but he’d found a barely legible phone number on the rabies tag and after four calls finally found the owner.

First words out of her mouth after he explained he had her dog was to ask if he wanted her. The dog was named Memphis and, as Australian shepherds are apt to be, was high energy. She (the woman, not the dog) said she had three kids and an older full-size, sedate poodle and the household just wasn’t suited for Memphis.

More conferencing.

Now, mind you, this is a gorgeous dog – obviously a purebred – who comes when you call. She’s a strange color mixture – redding brown and white – with a beautiful face. The woman said he was completely house-trained and has had obedience training. He just was an escape artist as well.

If the Wild Indians didn’t already make life difficult for my elderly and, I fear, ailing little Ting Ting, I would have grabbed her. It just doesn’t seem fair to Ting at the moment. As it is, I strongly encouraged my neighbor to adopt her and promised to dog sit. I do know that, between the two of us, we’ll find a good home even if it isn’t his.

Now this is something I WOULD like to forget. That face looking up at me, the tail wagging furiously, the tongue eagerly straining to give dog kisses. I WANT that dog. As if three weren't enough.

I rather suspect this is one thing I will not forget and that Memphis will eventually wind up in my house.

Ah well . . .

Back to revisions.

In the meantime, how is your memory? Anything important you forgot, recently.

Oops, I forgot the question mark.

She's Baaaack (LynnK)

Well, sorta. Not altogether and full-force, but then, I’m rarely all together and hardly ever forceful. These days, my standards are not high.

It’s amazing, really, how much energy and strength leaches away after two virtually motionless months. Doing a load of laundry yesterday put me out of breath. A trip to the grocery story is akin to invading a small, hostile country. Tonight I walked to choir practice, maybe half a mile each way on level ground, and by the time I got home, I felt as if I’d crossed the Nefud desert.

But the pain is much, much less now, and I no longer have to spend sleepless nights sitting upright in a chair gazing blankly at the TV screen. The plumbing is working, for a change. And except for the Infinity Construction Project next door, no one is building or repairing anything in my immediate vicinity.

My standard for happiness has definitely hit rock bottom. Slight mobility, only moderate pain, and a growing belief that the Shingles viruses are about done with me. Huzzah!

My brain is not quite so fuzzy now, or so I fancy. I no longer spend agonizing days and sleepless nights exploring mindless stuff on the Internets. But you would not believe what’s going on out there. Or what managed to catch my faltering attention.

For example, I’ve been trying to teach myself Lolcat. It’s a language, sort of,
for cats if they bothered to talk, which appears to have originated at the website I Can Has Cheezburger?
http://icanhascheezburger.com/
I’d previously enjoyed the pictures and captions there, like this example.




But I hadn’t realized that a sort of cult (like Star Trek fans who learn to speak Klingon) had grown up around the cat-lingo. And now, on a Wiki site, lolcat fans are busy translating . . . wait for it . . .
the Bible.
Lolcatbible.com

Yup. It probably takes a warped sense of humor, which I was born with, to get a kick out of this. And with about 2/3rds of the work accomplished, I expect all the good Bible sections are taken. But if I have a recurrence of the pain, which has happened a couple times since I started improving, I may put my hand to a psalm or something. Lymond would be so proud.



Lik I carz!







Nah. Truth is, I’m having withdrawal pains. Feeling lousy makes even useless silliness shine like diamonds. It helped me through a bad time. Besides, I’m drawn to lolcat because, unlike every foreign language on the planet, it might just be easy enough for me to learn.

I can practically hear Pat Potter all the way from Memphis ordering me to get a grip and get back to work on something useful. Okaaay, girlfriend. Will do.

But meantime, for those of you not in a mood to work at this moment, here’s the lolcat version of a familiar biblical passage. In lolcat, it’s all about bad spelling. Oh, and God is Ceiling Cat.

Ceiling Cat iz mai sheprd (which is funni if u knowz teh joek about herdin catz LOL.)
He givz me evrithin I need.
He letz me sleeps in teh sunni spot
an haz liek nice waterz r ovar thar.
He makez mai soul happi
an maeks sure I go teh riet wai for him. Liek thru teh cat flap insted of out teh opin windo LOL.
I iz in teh valli of dogz, fearin no pooch,
bcz Ceiling Cat iz besied me rubbin' mah ears, an it maek me so kumfy.
He letz me sit at teh taebl evn when peepl who duzint liek me iz watchn.
He givz me a flea baff an so much gooshy fud it runz out of mai bowl LOL.
Niec things an luck wil chase me evrydai
an I wil liv in teh Ceiling Cats houz forevr.

May you all live safe, well-fed, and blessed forever by Ceiling Cat. Srsly!

Little Things That Make Me Smile (Maggie)

It's been a rough week, which means it's a bit more of a challenge to focus on the positive. One thing I've found that often works for me, is to take time to appreciate the things that do go well, even the little things, any and every little thing that gives me reason to smile.

So that's what today's post is--my list of little things I can focus on, rather than focusing on all the headaches.

Number one on my list is apple blossoms. The apple trees are exploding all around me. You can't step outside without being bathed in their scent, and I think they have the sweetest aroma of all. I cut a few and brought them inside to scent up my living space.

My home makes me happy, and if I focus on the outside, even happier. I mowed the entire lawn yesterday, and it looks great and smells even better. Nothing like the scent of fresh cut grass. My tulips and daffodils and hyacinth are in bloom, and if you didn't know anything had happened, and only looked from the back, you'd never know there had been a fire.

New friends make me happy and I made some great ones in Florida. Dru (center) is a true soulmate. Fate wanted us to meet, I'm sure of that!

Gorgeous new book covers make me positively giddy, and I got a great one for my October release, Angel's Pain. This is the first time it's been seen publicly. Don't you love it? And how can you do better than a gorgeous October vampire novel?

The warm weather and sunshine make me happy, too, and we've been having a lot of both lately. And last night, just as I was thinking my lawn could use a drink, it rained. A nice gentle rain, overnight and it's still misting and sprinkling this morning. Most needed. It'll be great for the grass and the flowers, especially those yet to bloom.

Progress on the house has been slow, but it's still happening. Bit by bit, work is getting done, and I'm finally at a point where I can start to envision what it will be like, a little at least. Sheet rock still hasn't gone up, but we're getting ever closer.

Dozer, my pup, is an ongoing source of joy, fun, laughter, and companionship. I'm so glad I have him. He's learned to sit and shake now, but hates being away from me even for a short time, and despises being tied onto a lead or led by a leash. We're working on those skills. He loves treats and snacks, but could care less for dog food unless I pour something tasty over it. A little gravy or broth does the trick. He doesn't get car sick anymore, a huge relief, but remembering it, still hates the car. I'm hoping he'll start to love it soon.

I had a wonderful Mother's Day. The girls hosted a breakfast at Jessica's place, and all the kids came. They all went in together to buy me a beautiful cedar porch swing, something I'd been wanting for awhile. Perfect gift! Then that night, I enjoyed pizza and movies with the two youngest, and we laughed until i thought my sides would split. I took my camera to both events and had so much fun I forgot to take pictures.

The book I'm working on now, (BLOODLINE, May 2009) is going beautifully. There's not much better than when a story really flows for me. It makes my work more like fun, and you can't get better than that.

So I'm not going to list the things that have gone wrong this past week or two. I'm just going to focus on all the good things, and keep noticing more of them to add to my list. Because my attention to the good stuff will attract more good stuff, and the opposite is also true. So, bad stuff, back off. I'm going to ignore you until you go away!

Tell me about the good things in your life.

Maggie

Mother's Day re-cap - Let's Share Families

This is Bubba. Bubby. William, if you want to get technical about it. He's a miracle. A gift. He came to us almost three years ago - a huge surprise to my brother and his wife. He came early. He had challenges to face. And look at him! He's been pricked and prodded and pushed and he's good with that. No complaints here! (Unless, of course, you think you're going to skip a meal!) This little guy is all boy - he didn't just sit at my table eating his cheerios - he climbed on the table. More than once. Grabbed everything he could get his hands on and then hurled it through the air. (He's a future little league star and is serious about his practice!) He loves seven layer salad - or any salad. He ate his cheeseburger. And his macaroni and cheese. He called the dog in sign language. And his mama verbally. He read a picture book with his mom, naming animals and birds in sign language as he saw them. And he helped his daddy sing itsy bitsy spider. He's a Michigan fan. And a runner. He adores his sisters. And life. This boy is my joy.

This is Claire Claire. Or Julia - depending on her mood. She's a princess. Just ask her. She's going to be four this summer, but that four is only a number understood by us plebians. Claire Claire is an ancient spirit. She has her own perspective and knows that she is here to educate the rest of us. She takes her responsibilities very seriously. And takes her needs that way, too. She doesn't wait around for anyone else to meet them. She just makes sure that things happen. "Aunt Tara, does that thing get Noggin?" she asked, pointing at the TV on my hutch after climbing up on my bed because she decided that she wanted to sleep at my house. Claire loves beautiful things. (As a matter of fact, beautiful is one of her favorite words.) She insists on wearing dresses and is going to get big so that she can try on my wedding gown. We had a talk about potatoes, too. Claire doesn't like them. At all. What about french fries, I asked. "Yes, I like them." Well, Claire, I so knowingly imparted, french fries come from potatoes. "No, Aunt Tara," came the most serious reply. "They come from McDonald's."

This is Emma. This wasn't taken on Mother's Day, however, because Miss Emma was upstairs playing with American Girl dolls, immersed in a highly technical world of her own. (Her hair's a little shorter now.) She's the big sister. The sweet young lady. And the whiz kid all rolled into one. I love listening to her talk and learn something pretty much every time she opens her mouth. She's sensitive and smart and pays attention to everything. Mostly her little brother and sister. She loves her parents more than just about anything - and not just because they're there. She KNOWS her parents and loves them for who they are. Miss Em made a book for her mother for mother's day. She didn't pull any punches - with full mention of stinky things - and things that her mother loves. The book ended with a note about the fact that no matter how much trouble she gets in, she always knows her mom loves her.

I have three other girls, too. A daughter (who wrote a similar mother's day tribute to me years ago which we all read on Sunday) and two step daughters, all three of whom have the power to fill my heart to the brim just by being present. All three of them are unique and priceless and of an age to probably not want their pictures plastered on my blog!

Not only is this man the star of my family - he was the star of my mother's day. My husband, my best friend. From the minute I opened my eyes on Sunday until the time I went to sleep he was the embodiment of every hero of every book I've ever read or written. He gave me gifts that surpass this lifetime. Real gifts that filled the holes in my heart. Gifts I will never have to leave behind. Gifts I will never forget. I could go on and on, but I'll spare you! (And him.)This is my mom. For the first time in more than twenty years she had her two living children with her on Mother's Day. She is a remarkable woman, a strong woman. She is my example and my friend. Through all the years of my life, ups and downs and in betweens, she has remained steadfast - sometimes there, sometimes waiting, but always loving her family. First. Foremost. I want to be like her when I grow up - but I won't ever grow up so much that I don't need her.

And then there's my new neice - new to me this year - my brother and sister-in-law, and sister-in-law and brother-in-law and Lee Ann and Courtney and Bob and Aunt Phyl and cousins and...

This is some of them. Gathered together this past summer.

If I've learned nothing else, I've learned that beyond any money or material things, beyond place or activity, family is by far the most important, meaningful part of life. In it's own way, our family here on storybroads is part of that precious entity. As is the small family of friends I've collected over the years. As my mother said on Sunday, I am a very very lucky woman.

She was right.

How about the rest of you? Families come in all shapes and sizes. Related by heart. Will you share yours with us???

Stories That Haunt Us (Suzanne Forster)

I read two books recently that have stayed with me, the characters, themes and storylines resonating in my mind like a haunting musical refrain. The first one, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, raised many intriguing questions and left some of them unanswered, at least for me. But that’s given me the pleasure of pondering all the possibilities and mulling the reasons people make certain choices, something I’ve always enjoyed—and quite possibly why the story has stayed with me.

I’m still searching to understand why a woman would leave her husband and surviving children under the tragic circumstances in The Lovely Bones. I don’t want to give too much away, but the woman’s daughter, who is also the story’s narrator, seeks to answer that conundrum with a beautiful description of her mother’s expression as she’s sitting alone and staring into the distance, a “stare that stretched to infinity.” At that moment, her daughter realizes that her mother is someone else, someone who’s not a mother, someone separate from her husband and children, a person who has never been acknowledged. I had a moment of clarity when I read those passages. Briefly, it all made sense, but still the mother’s storyline haunts me, and I realize there’s probably something more there for me to discover, not necessarily about the character or the author’s intention for her, but about myself.

My next read, The Kite Runner, is an intimate look at life in Afghanistan that was totally fascinating—and heartbreaking. The story takes place before and after the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, and includes the protagonist’s escape to America and the difficulty with assimilation. But despite the grand scope and the political backdrop, it is very much a story of fathers and sons, friendship, love and betrayal, all universal themes.

For me, the lessons of The Kite Runner are very accessible. One wrong choice can resonate through generations. In this case the protagonist betrayed his friend and devoted servant. He chose cowardice over courage, and his legacy was self-hatred, which he denied and projected onto the friend, causing a cascading series of events that were not to be resolved until he finally came to grips with his own demons. When the story was over, I found myself wondering if the author might not be saying that self-hatred was the source of all hatred.

Both The Kite Runner and The Lovely Bones make clear how lasting and haunting one tragic event can be, and how it can change individuals and families for a life time. Well, actually forever, unless there's the attempt to face and deal with the damage. But also, that the event does not exist in isolation. It's part of the fabric of these people's lives, and if the relationships are weak and strained, the fabric tears and it may never be repaired. It made me wonder how many people go to their graves with unresolved issues. Many, I think.

I hope I haven’t made the books sound sad or depressing. Both are richly absorbing and ultimately hopeful. Very readable, too—and well worth the time.

Now, on to other memorable tales. As a young girl I read every Regency and gothic novel I could get my hands on. Sadly I don’t remember the title of the Regency that stood out from all the others and continues to haunt me with its dark and daring passions, except that it had the word Lord in it. But, don’t they all? There was also a book by Johanna Lindsey about Vikings and one by Victoria Holt where the hero held the heroine hostage in the tower of a castle. I don’t remember many details now, just images, but oh, those images! For me, The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough still resonates. One of the early scenes, where Meggie and her brothers are disciplined by Sister Agatha, left a lasting impression. Thanks to McCullough’s vibrant writing, my fingers still sting at the thought of a cane whistling down on them.

Those are a few of the stories that come readily to mind, but there are more, too many to list, including the haunting works of my fellow bloggers here on Storybroads. This blog would go on forever if I started listing all the titles that are coming back to me, one after another, even as I write this. I’m fending them off because time and space are limited, and I’ve taken enough of both. I would rather have you share a few of your favorites.

What kind of stories haunt you? Are there some that have stayed with you through all the years, possibly even from childhood? It doesn’t matter at all what kind of books they were. Fortunately, our imaginations don’t limit us. They just take flight and off we go with them on a magic carpet ride … or through a looking glass into another land … or down a rabbit hole.

Where have your favorite books taken you? Please share a few titles and take us along!

Suz

GOOD TIMES (Anne Stuart)

So life has suddenly become splendid. I became fat, fair and sixty at Disney World (one of my favorite places in the world) along with my kids and my husband. We stayed at the Port Orleans Riverside, which was gorgeous, I scooted around on a little scooter (the knee's still bad from the surgery) and struck terror in the heart of bus drivers with my parking skills, I rode lovely rides (favorites being Pirates, Haunted Mansion, and Peter Pan), avoided terrifying rides (anything with Mountain in the name) and decided after my third time on Soarin' that I'm just too chicken. I practically broke my husband's hand I was clutching it so tightly.