To all of you in the path of Gustav or affected by the storm in any way, the StoryBroads send out our heartfelt good thoughts, prayers, and best wishes for safe harbors and a peaceful sunrise.

If you have a story to tell, or if you want to add your experiences or good wishes to ours, click on Comments and treat it like home.

Dragged Kicking and Screaming into the 21st Century (Patricia Potter)

Well, I’ve finally made peace with the 21st Century. Kinda.

Yep, I’m one of the last hold-outs. IPod? What’s that? Docking Station? Hummmm. Something to do with boats? Wireless? Way too much trouble.

After all, didn’t I already have a great CD collection? A really nice CD sound system? Why did I need one of those newfangled contraptions? I was happy in my ignorance.

Until my niece held a tea party for my Mom at her nursing home. The entire family attended, tasted five different kinds of tea, along with any number of delectable edibles. It was all accompanied by Tea Party music.

Sounded kinda good. Particularly when it came from a small portabble speaker. No stack of CD's. One query turned into another. Okay, how did this whole IPod thing work? I had watched for years as nephews and nieces received these curious little gadgets for Christmas.

Not for me, I said. I had my CDs.

But now my curiosity was sparked. You can really store a hundred hours of music in one tiny little red piece of metal not much bigger than a package of matches? You can really do any kind of magical things with it?

My niece regarded my questions with great pity. Even compassion. She offered to go with me to buy an Ipod so I too could enjoy the marvels of modern technology.

Little did I know the pure joy that awaited me. We went to several stores searching for bargains. I emerged several hours later as the proud owner of an IPod and a small portable docking station. Then came instructions. Unfortunately Itunes did not co-operate. It kept reminding me that I needed a safety pack that didn’t want to get installed.

But now I had fervor. Lots and lots of fervor. I could see music at the end of the rainbow. My personal pot of gold. My niece gave up. Maybe her daughter – my great niece – could figure it out. I kept trying, though, and suddenly my computer told me I had installed the uninstallable safety pack.

My niece and great niece returned. And then I truly understood the magic of the IPod. I downloaded any number of CDs, placing individual songs in “Favorites,” some in my “My Top Rated,” and some just “Recently added” to be sorted later.

So much to choose from.

There goes my book proposal for a few more days.

Okay, I put together my favorites. An eclectic group of selections if I don’t say so myself. Here’s a few of them:

Simple Gifts.
Amazing Grace
Deep River
Wand’rin Star
Free Willy (I really love this)
When I Fall in Love
A Summer Place (Theme) I fell in love at this movie many years ago
Malaguena
Variations on a Theme of Paganini
Summer Time from Porgy and Bess
Polka and Fugue
Main theme from North and South. (I really like the sweep of this)
Nessun Dorma (Pavarotti)
Shenandoah
Beyond the Sea

Joy. Awe. How could I have gone so long without it? Now I'm signing up for a photoshop course. You will soon (I hope)see photos in my blog. I'll no longer be the hapless, electronically challenged fuddy duddy.

Now am I the last human being on earth to have discovered the IPod? Or are there others?

And what are your “Favorites?”

In the meantime, I am ever so happily living in the 21st Century.

You Gotta Have Friends (LynnK)

Meanwhile, back on Highway 1, Pat Potter and I were lost in a town we never meant to visit. I've actually heard of the place, but I can't remember its name. And no one who knows me will be surprised to read that all the maps are still in the car. A month later. So you'll never know where we were lost, or why, any more than Pat or I do. After several days on the California Coast, Pat and I were feeling very Zen-ish.

Little did we know that San Francisco would grind us up and spit us out. Well, me, anyway. And I was only there for two days! Above all things, I needed to arrive in time to deal with luggage, find a place to park that didn't cost $52/day like the Marriott's garage, and get gussied up for a grand tea in company with some of my favorite people ever--the Librarians. But by the time I staggered into the lobby all sweaty and unkempt, the librarians and their guests (very kempt indeed) had gathered and were ready to set out. Without me, sob. I took pictures, which are somewhere on this computer, so more about the story later. Just note that my most special Conference event had slipped through my late and dirty fingers.

Through no fault of Pat's, I hasten to say. By our last day of travel, she'd honed her navigating skills and cleverly chose a freeway exit that put us within a couple blocks of the hotel. For all the good that did us. We may as well have been miles away. Truly, at one point I could see the vehicle entrance to the Marriott. It was less than half a block away. But some evil genius has designed a scheme of one-way streets that keeps you circling for hours. And I'd bet that no San Francisco driver has ever, ever let another car change lanes to make a needed turn. Not to mention times on a steep hill with a trolley practically nosing at my backside and no place for me to go. I used to think Glasgow the hardest city to navigate, but no longer.

As it turned out, I could also get lost on foot. I do some copy editing for a small press that was kind enough to invite me to their author dinner, even though I didn't know a soul among them.

Well, I know this one, Alicia Rasley, getting a little free promo for her latest (and superb) writing book. But we can't ever go anywhere without getting lost, and that evening, we wandered in entirely the opposite direction thanks to the directions wrongly given or wrongly apprehended. My fault, too, because I was late. L'd lost my watch (never found it) and the clock was wrong.

We tried in vain to get a cab, but after a time the nice folks at a Whole Foods Market offered to use the computer to pull up Mapquest. Man, were we ever lost! By the time we got to the restaurant, I thought I'd just curl up and have a nap. But a pineapple martini snapped me outa that, and after another, I was feeling pretty darn cheerful. Still didn't know anyone, but an author had a birthday and got a cake. I was starting to fit right in with this crowd!

Turned out I needed those martinis and the wines that followed. When I got back to the room, Alicia in tow, Pat was there and so was Tara, along with Tim, The World's Most Patient Husband. Don't ask me how it started. I am innocent. But fairly soon, we were engaged in a knock-down, drag-out kerfuffle, not that any one of us exerted ourselves physically--might spill the wine! All this over the use, or non-use, of semicolons in fiction.

I can't be sure, but I suspect these writers have graduated to the no-colons-in-fiction class. However, they cannot quite let go the little semicolon critters. Alicia was armed with poetry to back up her opinions, although nobody said semi-colons weren't perfectly fine in poetry. Pat just plain didn't like rules. She allowed as how she's used only a handful of semicolons in her long career and reserved the right to do so in future. As well she should. There's a difference between experienced and talented authors and those less experienced and alert. Tara was fairly vehement on the prohibition of semicolons in fiction, but as we all noted in one of her blog entries, she has since crossed over to the Dark Side. Return, grasshopper, and all will be forgiven.

Did I mention that this debate lasted more than three hours? And all the while Tim TWMPH sat beside Tara and never said a word. Never even looked bored. He's too much the gentleman for that. But inside he must have been screaming, "Lemme outa here!"



So as you see, we authors do live a wild and crazy life. In between landmark debates about punctuation.The next day, my last in SF, was spent with friends or looking for friends. Here's Mary Jo Putney on her way to something glamorous.

Of course, sometimes you run into the Wild Bunch. Left to right, the ubiquitous Alicia Rasley, the beauteous Carol Prescott, the lovely Beth Pattillo celebrating her newest book, The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society, and the unpredictable, always entertaining Mary Strand.

At an RWA Conference, we too often miss seeing friends or don't get to spend enough time with them. But I got lucky on my last day and evening. The latter was spent at a crowded, trendy, excellent San Francisco restaurant filled with Beatiful People. Including us. Well, our hostess looked glamorous and trendy, but I can't say the same for her three guests. However, we had a wonderful dinner and the conversation mever turned to punctuation.

For lunch, I met up with author Andrea Pickens, whose latest book, The Scarlet Spy, will be out in October. We both ordered the chicken salad club sandwich, which turned out to be not at all what we'd expected. Boy, were they good, as were the garlic fries. Good thing I had only two days and nights of dining in San Francisco.

Next up: Lynn Achieves Bliss

Harvest Moon Musings (Maggie)

The Full Moon of August is often known as the Harvest Moon. It seems far too early to me, and yet, I can't argue with the evidence. Sweet, sweet, sweet corn is available at roadside stands every few miles along the meandering roads in any direction I care to take, out here where I live. Tomatoes are ripening. And the leaves are even beginning to turn. In Wiccan tradition, the moon marks out cycles, and we can find its phase reflected in every aspect of our lives if we choose to look hard enough. The New moon is the beginning of a whole new cycle. The full moon is when activity within that cycle reaches its peak, and as the moon wanes, as it's doing right now, the cycle is winding down and getting ready to come to an end. Dark moon is the absolute end, and the momentary pause between breaths, likened to the pause between death and rebirth.

The seasons, too, are reflected in our lives. Things begin in spring, grow and peak in summer, wane in the fall, and winter is that time of stasis, between death and rebirth. Same pattern, longer periods of time.

Right now the moon is waning, and so are the seasons. Things are winding down and wrapping up. Things are getting ready to end. Sometimes--almost always, in fact--endings are sad and difficult for we humans. But they're always for the best, and there's always something better waiting in the wings to step in. It's hard to see it when you're in the middle of an ending--I know having been through lots of them. But later, in hindsight, you look back and realize it had to happen, and that a lot of good things you have now, wouldn't have come to be without that ending.

So hold onto that when you're going through the sad kinds of endings, and maybe it'll help.

I'll tell you one ending I won't be sorry to see, though--the ending of all this rebuilding on the house. Or at least this cycle of it. It's not over yet, though. In fact, the fullness of summer seems to be holding on in that aspect of my life. Things have taken off at a rapid pace during this very early stage of fall, and it should be waning right on time with the season.

This is the ceiling in my kitchen. When we tore down the old ceiling, after the fire, we found a sloping ceiling underneath it, and I decided to keep it. It's now nearly covered in knotty pine tongue-and-groove boards, which have had coat after coat of stain and varnish applied until they gleam.

The color of the pine boards is almost identical to the color of my kitchen cabinets (which will be the next thing to go in--yay!) We had trouble finding a color, but when we applied a base coat of one and a second coat of a totally different shade, we got exactly what we were looking for. And by we, I mean the crew of fabulous people working for my contractor on this job. Jason, Keith, Ken, Mark, and Jamey the lone female, have been fun to be around. They're the one part of all this I WILL miss when it's finally done.

Dozer will miss them too. He waits for them every morning, and when he hears them arrive, whines until I let him go out and say hello. They play with him every single morning for a few minutes before getting started, and he loves it. He's going to wonder what happened when they stop coming around.

Another ending.

House stuff never truly ends, though. I've got a ton of projects lined up for next year, (deck, hot tub, pool, garage--though that's probably at least two years worth of projects, huh?) And one big one I just discovered for this year--my roof is leaking and needs tending to. There's a wet spot inside one of the hall closets, and even a bit of mold. That'll have to be dealt with right away. My chimney, too, needs rather immediate attention. Always more to do.

One thing I hope will be ending soon, is the major inconvenience of having my road closed within a stone's throw of my house, which means I have to drive an extra 8 to 9 miles (round trip) just to get to the local gas station, store, or Post Office. What a pain.

I'm going to miss summer! Fortunately, it has a habit of coming back again. And I do love Fall, so all is well.

What cycles do you see in your life that seem to follow the seasons, or the moon? For me, the lunar one involves my energy levels, to a really noticeable extent. I always feel more energized when the moon is waxing, new to full, and then it starts to fade as it goes from full to dark.

Another thing that just ended was work on another novel, BLOODLINE. The waiting time for ANGEL'S PAIN is nearly at an end, as that book goes on sale in just one month, and more likely will begin showing up a week before its October 1 release date. I've been trying to dive into a new novella while the moon wanes, and the energy hasn't been there. Maybe when it's new again in a few short days it will really take off.

Anyone else noticing these patterns? Let me know, we can compare notes.

Maggie

The Writer's Life (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I had someone ask me recently if any writers were normal. Well, my first response was to want to know who defines normal. Normal for you? Normal for me? Normal for my writer friends? Normal for my mother and my aunt who grew up in a different time than I did, but have seen every single bit of the world's evolution that I've seen, plus some?

And my second response was, how could we be? If normal is to be defined by stereotype, by majority, then, no we probably aren't normal. Just look at the math. In the romance industry there are somewhere between 300-600 full time fully supporting authors in the world. Based on statistics that are a few years old, I'd say there are about 2500 people currently publishing book length romance fiction. And romance fiction makes up nearly 50% of all mass market paperback fiction so that means that there are probably around 5000 people around the globe who are currently publishing book length fiction. 5000 out of - how many people are there in the world? If the majority sets the norm - we don't have a chance!

My third response was - why would we want to be? I've been different my whole life. Because I dare to look at the world through my eyes, through my heart, and not through the eyes and hearts of those around me. I dare to be honest with myself about what I think and feel, rather than feeling like I have to conform to what I'm told to think and feel. Why would I want to be like everyone else? Everyone else has their own jobs to do here, I have mine. If I'm you, I'm not me. If I'm doing your job, my job isn't getting done. And if I think the thoughts and do the things that everyone else is doing, I'm not living my life. I'm living everyone else's life. A pre-determined stereotype that was determined by...who? The trick is to find someone who loves you because you're not 'normal', who finds your differences a treasure.

Being a writer is hard. And not just because we must spend so much time isolated and alone. People tend to look at us as the lucky ones, getting to sit at home every day when others go off to work, maybe laying around in our p.j's or some other comfie clothes, watching television, eating what we want when we want (mostly chocolate seems to the stereotype, as though we don't gain weight or have health issues like everyone else), chatting on the phone, or meeting friends for lunch. Or they see us traveling the globe, visiting exotic locations for research, or making appearances. Being wined and dined. And there might actually be a moment or two like these. (Certainly we seem to have an addiction to chocolate!) But, like the pain of childbirth, those moments fade almost into oblivion in the face of the real writer's life.

I currently have three editors. And yesterday, heard from all three of them. They all three need work from me by the end of this week. That's three days. And if each of them only needed one day's work, I could actually hope to please them. To come through. Unfortunately, they each require weeks of my time. Two of the three admitted that this pressured situation is not my fault. One was a book moved up in the schedule to fit a themed month during Harlequin's 60th anniversary celebration in '09. Another was due to a date error by the production department - they gave the wrong date for when the book was scheduled to be at the printer. And the third - well that one had already been informed, prior to contract, that the dates first set forth would be an impossibility. I guess she just forgot.

And when I'm not in situations quite so pressured, I still have to work at least 8 hours a day. Only I don't get to leave work behind and go home at the end of the day. When I'm not working...I'm working. Because, in truth, a writer is never not working. At least this writer isn't. My work is largely in my head. In my thoughts. And they don't shut up. Many times not even enough to let me get a good night's sleep. The people are always there, clamoring for their say, to tell me what I need to write, what needs to be heard. They're always borrowing my eyes, my ears, to view the world. Stories don't swarm on schedule. They swarm constantly. They missed the memo on normal. And the one on vacations and time off and peace and quiet. No matter where I am, or what I am doing, the stories present themselves. And I'm driven to get them down. To get them out. To find peace? Ha! No. To make room for more stories.

Real life, non working experiences - become stories. Yesterday my honey and I were having lunch with my mom who's been staying with us (she left today and I already miss her, but we get her here at our house for the entire Thanksgiving holiday, yeah!!!) and she said that in every single book of mine, she recognizes things. Bits and pieces of real life. She was talking about a book I wrote in which characters were on a picnic. She said she recognized the meadow they were in. And when they delved into the picnic basket, she knew, ahead of time, everything that was going to come out! I made no conscious choices for that picnic. I was just following orders from the particular story running through my brain. A brain that, apparently, was working at some point when I was having a picnic with my mother.

Today my mind is more frantic than many days. So I must run and do it's bidding. Fed-Ex closes at seven this evening and I have to have a print out there before that happens. And a book done by Friday. And a synopsis done by then, too.

But lest you think a writer's life isn't filled with wonderful things, I leave you with a moment of my pure birthday joy this past week:

And while I worked all day on my birthday, I will also share with you that my dear sweet Tim made the celebration phenomenal - it lasted several days (stealing moments out of real life) and culminated with a birthday cake that he made and decorated himself.

My life might not be normal - but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Free at Last! (Suzanne Forster)

Sounds like I’ve just been released from prison, doesn’t it. Actually, it was jury duty, but close enough. Given my track record, doing my civic duty is beginning to feel like a jail sentence, and a very long one at that. I’ve lost count of how many years in a row I’ve been served with that scary looking summons that comes in the mail. It’s six or seven, at least. Why a summons? Really, it makes me feel like a criminal. Being assigned to a group and given a number doesn’t help either. And why am I the only one I know who gets tagged repeatedly, year after year?

Okay, I know we should all do our civil duty without complaint, but enough already. It’s beginning to feel as if I’m being singled out for harassment by the county court system. (I hope they don’t read blogs!)

Interesting, though, even with that many summons, I’ve never been chosen for a jury. Could it be the surly expression on my face that says what am I doing here again this year? Of course, I’m always on deadline and terrified I’m going to be chosen for a trial that drags on for months and months. The jury selection process is pretty interesting, though. I remember my first experience well. The defendant was accused of driving under the influence and causing a car wreck that resulted in serious injury to several people. The judge asked us to speak up if we had any reason to believe we couldn’t be objective. I’d had some bad personal experiences with drunk drivers and knew I couldn’t be objective. So, with silence all around me, I spoke up—and I was the first person to be excused. Perhaps they’ve been holding that against me.

I have a lawyer friend who said he would never choose me to sit on a jury. He said I was much too creative, bless his heart. Seriously, though, apparently trial lawyers don’t want fertile minds on their jury panels. I can’t imagine why. Maybe creative types are not as easily swayed, or too busy trying to out think the accused and his/her counsel. I can imagine most writers plotting the entire trial out in their minds for a future book and creating embellishments here and there, which could lead to all kinds of alternate theories on how the crime was committed and greatly complicate things in the jury room.

I was almost hoping I’d get picked this time. I thought maybe it was because I’ve never actually served on a jury that they keep recycling me every year, so I listened very carefully to the automated voice when I called in on my last day. She told me I didn’t have to call in again, that my jury service was complete. Now, does that sound to you like I’m home free? Let’s hope so! Even the IRS audits at random. Well, supposedly. They don’t pick on the same people every year, do they?

I’d call to inquire why I’m the most popular potential juror in the entire county, but I think it might be smarter not to draw attention to myself.

Suz, keeping her lip zipped and her head down…

Endings and Beginnings (Anne Stuart)

It's a time for a lot of things to end. Summer, for one thing. It's getting cool here in Northern Vermont, and there are splashes of color all around. There wasn't much of a summer at all -- nothing but rain -- but the clear cool days of fall remind us all why we live here.

It was also the end for a dear friend of mine, Lewis Hill, a writer and a mentor. He was one of the loveliest people I've ever known -- he wrote gardening books and memoirs and still lived on the homestead his family had built in 1840. He'd lived a long life, but in the end the darkness was too much, and he took his own life. I'll miss him terribly. But his wife Nancy has always been his equal as a good friend, a talented editor and a wonderful person, and we're so blessed we still have her.

It's the end for my daughter's sojourn in Philadelphia, where she's lived for the past couple of years with her best friends. Richie's gone down to pack her up and bring her home for a month, and I know she'll be sad and weepy. But next month she gets to start a new part of her life, moving to San Francisco to finish college and learn how to create video games.

It's coming to the end of my book. I've been working like a madwoman to make my deadline -- 20 and more pages a day. But when I'm done, I get to begin the first of three rich, yummy, dark, sexy historicals, and I can't wait. My favorite way to write is to alternate historicals with contemporaries -- the grand adventure of the historicals lighten some of the darkness that lingers in my soul from the contemporaries. I'm really pumped.

It's the end of the Olympics, which kept me mesmerized for two weeks. I never thought I'd love the Summer Olympics -- I'm much more interested in winter sports -- but I ended up loving all of it. (Well, maybe not the water polo -- it was hard to tell what was going on). And best of all was the closing ceremony with Jackie Chan and the incomparably hot Andy Lau singing on the tower. As for what comes next? The Winter Olympics in two years!

My mother's coming down the home stretch, but I'm not ready to see her ending. Today is her 94th birthday, and she may be the happiest I've ever seen her. She has an apartment with a view of the mountains as the leaves change, all her favorite things around her, she's working on her young adult book, and more like a woman in her sixties. At 94 it simply makes sense that she's not got forever, but knowing my indomitable mother, she may very well outlast us all, faculties intact.

Life seems to be a series of endings and beginnings. You can mourn the losses, great and small, but welcome the new possibilities. It takes a long time to learn how to do that, but I think I'm starting to get there. I've never read Judith Viorst's book, Necessary Losses (it's on my TBR pile) but the title itself says it all. There are losses that you have to accept to move on with life.

My, I'm being philosophical this morning. Time to lighten up.

What I'm listening to on the iPod -- Kelly Howell's High Focus and Increase Creativity. I've used High Focus for years whenever I'm on a writing blitz, alternating it with my soundtrack. I swear it makes me more productive. In between it's my triad of tough love songs -- Tougher than the Rest by Springsteen, Fearless Heart by Steve Earle, and I Don't Scare Easy by Mudcrutch. They pretty much sum up my love stories.

Your trivia question for the day: Andy Lau starred in the Hong Kong action thriller, Infernal Affairs, a brilliant movie that was remade into a major Oscar winner. What was the name of the remake, and, for extra credit, who played the Andy Lau character?

And that's all, my darlings. I wanted to upload lovely pictures (particularly of Andy Lau) but the internet is being slothful. Have a splendid week and enjoy your Labor Day weekend, resting from your labors, and know that I'll still be chained to this laptop, writing like crazy.

A DASH OF REALITY . . . (Patricia Potter)

I was floating on my return from California. I had a great time with great friends, and I really didn’t want to come back to reality and deadlines.

But the former smacked me in the face just days after my return when a hot water heater misbehaved and flooded half the house. Unfortunately it’s in an upstairs attic, and the water gathered between the floors before rushing through leaks to the carpet and soaking two rooms and a hallway. Since I was upstairs, I didn’t see the waterfall until too late.

When I went downstairs and my bare feet encountered soaked carpets. Water dripped from the ceiling.

I hate hot water heaters. They obviously hate me as well. This is my third hot water heater catastrophe in ten years. I want to go back to heating water over the stove.

Confession here. I would not make a good heroine. When I see waterfalls in my house, I tend to panic, especially when it’s pouring down on my precious boxes of copies of my early books. I ran for pots to put under said waterfalls, then turned off the hot water heater. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for a hot water heater to pour water throughout a two-story house.

I finally found the turn-off valve, but not before the infernal contraption did major damage. Next step was the plumber (despite my threats, I really wasn’t ready to heat water on my stove). Then the insurance company. They said I should call a “damage mitigation company” and they could recommend several companies. Of course, the cost might or might not be covered by said company, but if I didn’t, then most definitely the repairs wouldn’t be covered.

So I called their “damage mitigator.” At nine p.m., two people appeared at my door, oohed and ahhhed about the damage, then tore down the ceiling in two rooms, pulled up the carpet and left huge (and noisy) fans situated both upstairs and downstairs with orders not to turn them off for three days.

Then, an insurance adjuster appeared with his notebook. By then, I was shell-shocked and agreed to everything. Two days later the fans were removed, and a construction company appeared to repair the damage. Unfortunately the most damaged room includes three huge ceiling-to- floor bookcases. The books in the cases were not damaged (buckets under leaks helped) but I had to remove all the volumes so the bookcases could be moved before the ceiling was repaired. My bedroom is now an obstacle course. Piles and piles of books are in every nook and cranny.

Three days of pounding continued as I stumbled over piles of books, light fixtures and paintings. My three dogs, locked in my office for seven days now, tried really hard to be good, but they were obviously unhappy that strangers had the run of the house, and they didn’t. I had to sneak in and out for fear they would escape and, in their exuberance and unbridled love for any human, knock over someone on a ladder. A million dollar lawsuit would be the obvious result.

The construction people finished Friday. I had a new ceiling but unfortunately the workmen forgot to put up the light fixtures and, because of over anxious dogs and a telephone conversation, I didn’t check everything before they left. Another call. Another appointment.

Today – Saturday – the carpet people are due to arrive. More moving of boxes and piles of books. (I really do have to cull some of those books, but such a notion is contrary to everything in my packrat nature).

I will survive. My damage didn’t come close to Maggie’s, of course, and I’m in total awe that she’s been able to function and write during upheaval. I’m a creature of habit. Disrupt my habitat, and I’m in real trouble.

It didn’t help during this time that Yahoo suddenly decided to bounce all my email, or that my page proofs arrived from the publisher for in-depth reading or that my phone suddenly stopped working (I have a cable phone, and developer cut the lines several blocks away.

I wanna go back to California.

Halcyon Days (LynnK)

Only Day #3 of the Sirens’ Odyssey, but it seems we’ve been on the road for most of it. On this day, we escape the car and use our traditional means of travel: foot and boat.

I should mention that Naughtie Pattie has been spreading vicious photographic misrepresentations about my humble self. Or perhaps this was simply a matter of verb slippage. You know, something like the Great Vowel Shift, only without academic credentials and facts and stuff.

Anyway, she said as how I allowed no pictures of myself to be taken. True, but that was back when I thought silver sucked away all my Dark Arts. Now, with digital photography, the life-span on a Lynn picture has been extended to how long it takes my finger to hit the Delete button. And here, to prove Pat indubitably wrong, is a pic that slipped through my cracks.

Let me note that the tree behiond us is the famed "Lone Cypress," an icon of the 17 Mile Drive and among the most famous insignias in the words. Wouldn't you know we'd shovel it to the background!
Nonetheless, note the blue sky and blue water. Most tourists show up in summer months and expect nothing else. But those of us who’ve lived near the coast on the Monterey Peninsula knew to expect the coolest, dampest, foggiest weather of the year. You want sun? Come in October! But the Summer of Sunshine persisted through the time we were there and later followed us to San Francisco and points north that share the same perverse weather as Monterey.

Pat and I began our full tourist day at the fabulous Monterey Aquarium, located in the historic Cannery Row section of the town and fronted by the bay. Let me say the place was a madhouse, overfilled with kids and tweens and teens and tourist families. It was tough to get anywhere near the exhibits. And even tougher to get out of the building, as I discovered when I tried to retrieve my forgotten camera from the car. I wandered like a madwoman through the labyrinthine Aquarium, only to find myself inches from where where I’d started. It was a Twilight Zone kind of experience.

Meantime, Pat was getting in trouble with the penguins. Well, mostly by breaking their little hearts. She’d discovered sea otters and kept wandering off to their display. Sea-life slut!
Finally, after a side excursion into the Kingdom of Jellies, we left the enclosure and headed out to the open waters of Monterey Bay.


Behold the unofficial King of the Harbor, if only in his own seal or sea-lion heart. I can’t tell them apart. Anyway, Kewl Throne, Fella!

Our vessel, an unpretentious glass-bottom boat that revealed to our eyes only the giant kelp forests in the bay, turned out to be a blessing for Pat “Otter” Potter, them forests being where the li’l critters like to float on their backs and soak in the good rays.

Later, while Pat enjoyed fresh crab in a plastic cup on the dock, I wandered around the shops, bravely resisting the temptation to buy an unneeded, overpriced jacket emplazoned with "Monterey." Truth is, this area will always feel like home to me. It was the most settled place, for the longest amount of time, I lived in since birth. Mind you, I was only entering second grade when our little Navy family was stationed there. But before that, I'd been in Panama and East Africa. Time for this little citizen to discover the country her daddy was defending.

And so I entered Leave It to Beaver Land where kids could safely go anywhere on their bikes and Life's Greatest Challenge was making the baton twirling team . . . if you chanced to attend the local grammar school. But I, making a transition from months of playing hookey from school in Asmara, Eritrea, was consigned to the small, disciplined parish school in Pacific Grove. That's where my father bought our first house.

And here's a picture of it today, looking almost exactly the same.

Naturally, I had to tow Pat over to Pacific Grove and show her the places my little feet had trod (in school uniforn oxfords) and take some picture to share with my younger sister. Being a trouper, Pat loyally stayed awake through the Lynn Lived Here Tour, which was longer that she wished and shorter than I'd expected. Do you know, there was not a single plaque on any building I was known to have lived in or favored?

So when confronted with unanswerable injustice, whatcha gonna do? Why, go to Trader Joes, of course! We bought wine and munchies for the room in San Francisco, which we'd be reaching the next day about noon. We thought. And then, there being an entrance only a short distance from my former house, we set out along the famed and beautiful 17 Mile Drive.


Whereupon Pat "Ms. Popularity" Potter began making the acquaintance of every low-life, greedy, cadging, never-done-a day's work-in-its-life bit of fauna on the the whole peninsula. Well, they weren't all so lazy, even though seals and sea lions and birds do spend an amazing amount of time just sitting (birds) or lying around (mammala) on islands and outcropping of rocks. Oh, and they vocalize, so I expect this is the equivalent of Happy Hour.

To her credit, Pat admired the thousands of creatures just living a blissful life in a blissful place. But sad to say, she's a real sucker for an animal sob story, or for an animal that will suck up to her, or for anything cute and supposedly
helpless.

Hmmm. I suppose that could expain why she puts up with me....



Exhibit A, Your Honors.

Patricia Potter feeding a Shyster Squirrel.

Progress! It's a Good Thing! (Maggie)

Yes, I'm smiling, because after a long period of frustration, progress on the house is suddenly moving at a previously unseen pace. It's rapid right now. So this post is photo-heavy, and I wish the colors had come through a little better, but it gives you an idea.









This is my living room, which flows right into the dining room, one big open area. The color is a Glazed Orange, I think, by Valspar, and it's really a very cinnamon/russet shade. I'm going to add a different colored border stripe along the top, and in that border stripe there will be stencils of Native American petroglyphs, like the ones I saw painted on ancient stone walls on my trip to Arizona last year.

You can also see in one of these shots, the arched pass-through, that connects the dining room portion with the kitchen. To the left of that, those two-by-fours are framing up what will soon be my new wet bar. I plan to get one of those "tiffany" style bar lights to hang down from above the bar, and I've seen them with chili-peppers and cactus in the stained glass pattern. That will go nicely, because the entire living/dining/bar areas will be designed with a southwestern motif in mind. You can also see the new French doors that lead out onto the enclosed, full length front porch, which is my next project. (Hey, now that I've got started....)



Here is my kitchen. It's another Valspar color, Whipped Apricot, and I love it. When I set one of my new cabinets against it, it looks even better. You can see the bay window in the breakfast nook in this shot. Those boards on the floor are knotty pine tongue-and-groove, and they'll go on that sloping area of the ceiling where you now see only insulation. The color matches the color of my cabinets almost perfectly. I'm going with a countertop made of crushed quartz. It's gleaming black with flecks of gold and other shades. So I'll choosing a black fridge and range to go with that.

Here's the upstairs bathroom. Upstairs I went with lighter, more romantic, whimsical colors, and this one is pale apple. It's a bit too pale, but you get the idea. I've chosen a gorgeous vanity, sink and potty, and you can see the corner shower stall. The floor will be terra-cotta looking ceramic tiles, and the washer and dryer will be up there as well.

This is one of the guest bedrooms. It's pink, because I wanted a really girly room upstairs. I've found the cutest light fixture with fairytale-cartoon-like shoes dangling from it, and I think it will go perfectly. The other guest bedroom is a cream color, as are the stairway and hall.

And here's the master bedroom in a pale sage green. The windows are cased and the closet soon will be and doors will be added. The bedroom floors, hallway and stairs will all be carpeted. I haven't chosen a color yet, but I want just one color throughout so it has to go with the pink, the green and the cream.

Oh, and my plans for decorating the upstairs are all about romance. I have a book full of vintage romance novel covers. I'm going to take those and decoupage them onto the walls along the stairway and in the hall. In the pink bedroom, I'll use fairytale romance couples. In my bedroom, more classical scenes, and in the second guest room and bath, I haven't decided yet.

Okay, I'm off to buy tiles for the upstairs bathroom now! I should have some even more exciting pictures by next week or the week after.

Oh, and the baby is doing great, the family are all well, the work is flying along, and life is very good.

Maggie

Barns and Lions and Angels (Tara Taylor Quinn)

We're building our life one board at a time. That's what I can tell you this week. For the past week and a half my honey and I have spent every single night - sometimes until after dark - building the barn. (His name for it, but I have to tell you there's nothing in this piece of art that resembles any barn I've ever brought to mind.)

I'm the saw master, now - all except for the big hand held circular saw because my hand put its foot down at having to hold all that weight and stay steady at the same time. On Saturday I measured and cut all seven roof trusses and rafters, too. (That's four boards a piece with different angles on opposite ends.) And then nailed half of them together - after Tim secured them with the mending plates (fallacy, that name, you aren't mending anything, you're creating it!) In the meantime Tim dug post holes and then cemented the treated four by fours into the ground for the porch supports.

By Sunday night, the roof was up. On Monday the shething went over it. And last night we put down the tar paper that helps seal the roof. We're taking a week off because life (translated family) is intervening, and then we'll move on to the shingles. (The roof kind!) For those of you who've been reading us here for a while, you might remember last year at this time when I learned how to shingle a roof. I'm looking forward to it this time. Beating those nails is cathartic!

But it's not all just about the physical process. Our neighbors come over and chat and compliment my honey's workmanship. Last night the wife admitted that her husband has been insisting every night that he has to have a barn just like it at his house now! But the point is, they come over and chat. They watch our progress. They cheer us on. As we do them in the endeavors they share with us. All because we started building a barn.

And far more than that, my husband and I have taken a bunch of meaningless boards and a little bit of unused half dead grassy land, and made something out of it. Something we can be proud of. And use. Something of quality and beauty. Just like we're doing with our lives. We're doing it together. Every step of the way.

Last night, after dark, when all the tools were put away, we sat out under the porch on rocking chairs in the dirt and ate dinner - gazing at the fire in the fire pit not too far away. And we talked about where we were going - both small picture and not so small. We talked about real stuff.

I told him about a dream I'd had the night before. He was in it. And Taylor (who is more angel than dog, sent to earth to bring a blend of unconditional love and protection and practicality that life severely needed.) And our backyard. And me. And a lion. It was one of those stand out dreams. I can still see and feel it clearly, in detail, two days later. Tim and I talked about it for a while. Analyzed. And found some great stuff. Life stuff. And found some unanswered questions, too. On our half finished porch, attached to the barn we're building, one board at a time.

Juror #1007962, You have 45 Minutes to Report! (Suzanne Forster)

Guess who’s on jury duty this week? Nice coming home present. ::sigh::

Sorry I can’t post more than this quick explanation for being AWOL, but maybe a great story will come out of this. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

Suz, who will back next week with the details … unless she’s sequestered, heaven forbid!

Of Olympics and Trip (Patricia Potter)

A quick note about the Olympics with which I’m currently consumed.

Loved the two American gymnasts who won gold and silver medals Thursday night. The nearly flawless performances were stunning, as was the concentration on their faces as they waited for their turns. Even more astounding is how human beings can possibly train their bodies to perform some of the maneuvers, particularly on the balance beam.

And Michael Phelps!!!! Wow. What a swimming machine. I loved the vignette about his private life, particularly his bulldog friend and his enormous breakfasts. Oh, if only I could so indulge, but then I don’t wear off 4,000 calories during a swimming practice.

Unfortunately, all the really good stuff – at least for me – is late, late, late, and I’ve gone without much sleep for the last few days. My mom is particularly disgusted with the schedule. She loves the Olympics and all she can get at her nursing home is women’s Beach Volleyball, a sport she really doesn’t understand or care much about trying to comprehend.

As a doubting Thomasina, I didn’t care much about it, either, but enforced watching changed my attitude. The American team, again, is quite amazing, and it was fun watching one of the two celebrate her 30th birthday by winning.

And what about the forty year old plus woman swimmer from the USA?. I’m in awe.

##
Now about Lynn and Pat’s exceptional adventure. I’ll take up where Lynn left off. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t let me take any pictures of her. Therefore, I’m the only one being humiliated.

The Big Sur drive was really quite magnificent. I half-heartily offered to drive when Lynn’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel until I thought they might fall off. I was insincere, though. I was enjoying the scenery too much.

Driving up the California coast has been a very long held dream of mine. It was on my bucket list (things I want to do before I kick the bucket). It didn’t disappoint. The only unfortunate aspect of the drive is that now I want to go back and take three or four weeks instead of three and a half days. I want to stay at the hotel at the top of the mountain midway along Lynn’s ride of terror. I want to take up residence at the funky beach towns along the coast. I want to spend more time in San Luis Obispo, especially in its unique city center park. (I particularly liked the multitude of dogs).

I gathered real estate magazines all along the way, and even now I look longingly – if hopelessly --at them. I now understand why Californians stay, despite mud slides, fires, earthquakes and horrific real estate prices. There is true magic there where mountains and cliffs meet the sea. And the climate? Terrific for someone from Memphis and 100-degree plus temperatures.

I was the navigator and, quite modestly, I must say I did well (Lynn may disagree, but we only got lost twice). Mainly because I insisted that Lynn stop every two blocks while I ran into a fruit stand or gas station or tourist center for directions. I’m famous for that. Lynn is not. Lynn does not like to stop. I love to stop. Especially since I’m as directionally challenged as I’m electronically challenged. (I did buy a new car last month, and my one absolute requirement was a navigation system.)

But we always got to where we intended to go, and I was particularly spectacular in San Francisco when I guided us, without error, directly to the hotel. I was even more surprised than Lynn who was frantically trying to maneuver one-way streets.
There were several highlights of the trip up. One was the Monterey Aquarium which had a fantastic jelly fish display. And penguins. I am a great fan of penguins. It has become a symbol of unity between Lynn, Tara and I, and my Christmas gift to each every year is a new penguin ornament. They are such incredibly endearing creatures.

And then there was the jigsaw puzzle trunk. I think I mentioned several weeks ago that Lynn's car would probably resemble one of those tiny circus cars from which endless clowns depart. Clowns were not a problem, but luggage was. After our conference, she was taking two other people north, and she was carrying a computer, wine, and other goodies for the trip as well as luggage for two weeks, first for two, then for three. Every single tiny crack was very carefully packed. It took an average of thirty minutes each morning.

Then there was San Francisco and its many pleasures. Meeting friends. Going to parties. Eating. And eating. And eating. After a three-month diet, I was in glutton heaven, particularly at a restaurant called John’s Grill which was a block from the hotel. A friend led me to it, and I was so enthralled, I returned two more times in three days. It was a hundred years old or so, and was featured in the Maltese Falcon (movie), a fact you are not likely to forget once inside. The food was exceptional. Just think Oysters Wellington.

And then there was a Sunday ferry ride to Larkspur to meet a cousin. She had planned to pick me up at the hotel for a day with her family, but it was Marathon Day, and the hotel said all the streets would be closed. So I suggested I take the ferry to Larkspur. Oh happy suggestion. As readers of this blog know, I love the water. I love boats. I love ferries I particularly love a ferry on a beautiful day. I had a wonderful mile-long walk to the Ferry Building where marathoners were completing their race. I watched hundreds stagger to the finish line, then wandered about the many craft booths. I found a great Mexican restaurant in the Ferry Building (fantastic tacos) while I waited for the ferry. The hour-long ferry ride, enhanced by a glass of wine, was a bargain at $7.50. I was one happy camper when I arrived to spend the day with an aunt and cousins I rarely see and very much like.

All in all, it was a trip to cherish. I’ll always remember the wonderful drive up the coast with a close friend. The views will remain with me, as will gluttonous thoughts of Oyster Wellington and homemade blueberry muffins. But, as always, the greatest joy is always seeing old friends and making new ones. Now I start planning for next year in Washington D.C.

Two for the Scary Road (LynnK)

Day 2 of Pat and Lynn's Road Trip
For a Memphis resident, Pat slipped quickly into the casual philosophy of the Beach Rat: Real life is found between the ocean and the coastal freeway. Which is why we bypassed the fabulous Hearst Castle (I toured it years ago) and went in seach of elephant seals.

As you see, it's not because they are beautiful. On a small beach north of San Simeon, up to 15,000 elephant seals gather (not all at one time) in January to reproduce and for a month in spring or summer to shed their skin and grow a new covering. Sadly, it's usually the cute animals, like koalas and pandas and otters, that peel off the most attention from preservationists and supporters. But here, the slumbering, grunting, molting beasties can count on The Friends of the Elephant Seals. A low-key Friend was on hand to answer questions and share information, so Pat and I learned a lot about these critters and why they choose this small stretch of beach.

I'd gladly have stretched out beside those seals for the day, for dead ahead was the Road of Doom. For people like me, I mean. People with a primal, uncontrollable, irrational Fear of Edges. If I get too close to an edge with nothing between me and it, my heartbeat kicks up and I break out in a cold sweat. I would never take the Big Sur road heading south, but with no good alternative, I figured I could make it north if I hugged the mountain to my right.

While Pat enjoyed the speactular views and tried to ignore my gasps of terror, I nudged the car into every tiny turnout to let other cars go past. There's nothing worse than some idiot riding my bumper just because he wants to go faster than 8 miles an hour. Hey. That beats the 3MPH on my trip down Hurricane Ridge with Alicia Rasley. I have long-suffering friends. Anyway, I slipped over to a south-side turnout and snapped a few pictures, including this one. The fall is a long one. Plenty of time to write a will. Note the fog bank lying offshore, waiting to roll in. Summer is the most fog-bound season of the year for northern and central california. But in my dozen days of travel, skies were blue and my heart was glad.


Pat, not a tech wizard, tries again and again to place a call to her mom. She didn't realize we couldn't possibly get a signal here. To our left, the Pacific. And beyond the high mountains to our right lay the many square miles of Big Sur National Park. We saw little sign of the fires that had ravaged the area, but at one point, burnt treetrunks and scoured undergrowth came down to the narrow road itself. And stopped. Clearance equipment and trucks passed us every few minutes, on their way to deal with the aftermath of devastation. Let me add that this is one of the most beautiful areas in the world. If you have no Fear of Edges, drive the Big Sur route.

After three or four hours, we reached a grassy, gentle landscape that led to the Monterey Peninsula. I'd hoped to find a B&B in Carmel or Pacific Grove, only to discover that rooms with two beds existed only in pricey suites. And what with high-season prices, two rooms would have squashed our vacation budget. So we took a right turn into the Carmel Valley, land of horses, wine, and friendly people, where our chosen B&B was nestled in the arms of tree-strewn hills.


This is a picture of the pool area. A slight mixup regarding our reservation at the Country Garden Inns had put us into an unsuitable room, so the manager, Dirk, kindly provided us with separate large, airy rooms for two nights. He also served up the best Continental breakfast I've ever enjoyed. Maybe Pat will share the soft-boiled eggs secret. I can't remember the details, but I sure do remember those delicious eggs.

So after a long and (for me) sometimes tense day, we had a soft landing. But not always a quiet one. Next property over, a Flute Camp was underway. In the quiet of the valley, the "music" carried as clearly as if the musicians were in the room. I can say that most of those flautists needed a flute camp. And they were all playing different things, so you can imagine the cacophony. But I came to like the eerie sounds floating through the starry nights and the pale mornings. It was as if Dionysus had gathered his enthusiastic young followers in the woods and on goatish feet was leading them in a joyous celebration. In my heart, I joined the dance.

But after a couple hours, I put in the earplugs!

Next: Lynn drags Pat through the town where she grew up

Time and Time Again! (Maggie)

Little Jamey is home!

He was released from the hospital this past Monday, and so he and his family are happy at home, settling back in, and, I hope, beginning to recover from the traumatic events of the past month or so.

Chloe, the dog, is home, too, and my life is back to peaceful again. Although, I have to say, Dozer misses her a lot! Every once in awhile he whines plaintively, just to let me know. As soon as Jamey and family are up to having visitors, I'm going to take him with me for a happy reunion.

And so now my focus turns back to every day life. The ongoing repairs to the house. The newest cover art. Updating websites and writing blogs and columns and outlines and so on. And this week it hit me that I'm always rushing. I'm always in a hurry. I'm always perceiving my life as having too much to do and not enough time in which to do it, and that can be really frustrating. Especially when the shortages always seem to be in the things that mean the most to me. There's just never enough time to do the things I love best.

Now, I know that we create our own reality, so I know that by believing there's not enough time, I'm creating my own shortage of time. So the solution is obvious. I need to change the way I feel about time. I need to relax about it, line up with the notion that time is limitless, and abundant, and endless, and that there will always be more than enough of it. But the question of how to manage that remains. It's a change in mindset. It's a change in attitude. It's even a change in the way I talk about time. I have to train myself not to have those conversations where I'm saying how busy I am, how much I have to do, listing the endless, endless items and ending, always with, "There's just not enough time!"

So I'm going to work on that.

One of my little exercises is a creation box. You choose a pretty box, and you write in someplace obvious, Whatever this box contains, IS! And then you clip things, pictures, and so on, that you want, and you put them in the box, restating "Whatever this box contains, IS!" as you put them in. I just started this box.

I also have a poster board where I clip and paste things. It's my vision board. It's in plain sight. I'm not sure which method will work better, but I can see the two are very different. With the vision board, the things I want are in front of me, so I think of them often. With the box, it's more like they're hidden, as if you've released them to the hidden forces of the Universe to tend to, and you can stop worrying about them. So anything that makes me worry about not having it, goes into the box. And anything I can think about without worry, but with joyous expectation instead, goes on the board. Some things will go in both places.

So I think I'm going to find a watch, maybe a pocketwatch, to represent time. And I'm going to find a photo of what I like doing best, what I want more time to do, and glue it to the face of the watch, and I'm going to put that into my Creation Box.

In addition to that, I'm going to try to be more conscious about the ways I talk and think about time. And before I know it, there will be so much of it that I'll have to invent new ways to fill it all.

That's the plan, anyway! I'll let you know how it goes!

If you have any suggestions for calming down and relaxing more in relation to time, please post away! I'm collecting ideas!

Hugs,
Maggie

Speech or No Speech - and Good News (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I'm finally back - in one piece, I think - from the RWA conference and gruelling trip home. Flights were cancelled and we ended up trapped in an airport for almost twelve hours and then in the air flying places we didn't need to go to end up where we had to be. We hit the ground and after more than twenty four hours of traveling took a quick shower and then rushed off to the hospital. My brother-in-law was in ICU. By Saturday he was greatly improved - thank goodness. Still in ICU, but expecting to be out. And home and back to work. There might be some challenges, but none that he won't take on. And beat, if I have my guess. His wife is by his side, loving him, and that's what matters most.

And now...not that I'm superstitious or anything, but, that whole speech thing...

I was up for two awards at the RWA national conference. The RITA for Sara's Son and the Reader's Choice award for both The Night We Met and Sara's Son. They were competing against each other and several other great books. I didn't expect to win. I'd finaled before and never won. I hoped this time around. Because Sara's Son was such a different book. But I had no expectations. So much so that I got dressed up and attended the award ceremony for the Reader's Choice awards, dragging my honey and my dear friend Pat Potter with me, and proceeded to chat and people watch and basically not pay attention as they rattled off the finalists in my category as I didn't want to experience the let down of losing. Which was why, when they called Sara's Son, I didn't immediately jump for joy. I didn't hear them announce the winner! My companions reacted identically and I have bruises on both sides to testify to the jabs. No harm, I quickly made my way to the front and up on stage. And realized I had no idea what to say. I had no speech.

I proceeded to the mic and promptly told the audience that halfway through the book, I hated my editor for buying it. That's it for me. My words of wisdom! And gratitude! I forgot to thank the award sponsor's, the judges, my loved ones, or anyone else.

My sweetheart spent the next two days asking me, do you have a speech ready? We were preparing for the RITA ceremony and he was bound and determined that he wouldn't have to hear me lament over my stupidity a second time. In the elevator, walking the streets of San Francisco, over Crab Louis salad, he'd ask, 'do you have a speech ready?' Eventually I gave in. Grudgingly. I figured out who to thank if I won. And decided to skip any rendition of a story so I didn't segue off to shooting myself in the foot again. Speech in mind, I dressed up again. And I didn't win.

So, I ask you, speech or no speech? I didn't have one. I won. I humiliated myself. I had one. I didn't win. Another kind of humiliation. So what do I do next time? Speech or no speech? Conundrum.

You've heard conference reports from my sisters here and the one I have to most reiterate is the great semi-colon debate. I'm afraid to report that it wasn't just Pat and Lynn who debated. The whole thing started with fellow writer Alicia Rasley. And Lynn. They brought it to Pat and I. My lover, dear man, patiently glazed over as the debate raged. And it lives on. Yesterday, for the first time ever, I used a semi-colon in my fiction. I didn't do it on purpose. It just appeared. And I spent the next ten minutes with the voices of my dear friends in my head, waging battle over that single little flick of the key.

Pat won.

Conference was wonderful all around, but a dream come true for me, a writer who's been in the business long enough to be jaded and beyond any dreams come true, career wise. And then it happened anyway. I'd been asked to a meeting with four of the top publishing professionals in my company. I was dreading hard news in hard times. Instead, they had a surprise for me. I was offered a very nice three book contract with MIRA!!! I'm going to be doing another trilogy - still romantic suspense, but more in the nature of what I do best, psychological, intensely emotional suspense. There's this psychologist and she's got these patients and... The books will be released back to back in a three month span in 2010. (I have to have time to write them, and to fufill my Superromance obligations as well.)

Well, I managed to stay professional for the discussion. To take part in it. To take it all in. But when the Vice-President smiled around the table and said, I believe we have a deal, I could hardly contain myself. They all looked at me and, true TTQ style, I blurted what I was thinking - "If I was at home right now, I'd be screaming."

They offered to let me get up and dance. Which I did, a few hours later that night, with my gorgeous husband - the wise man who wasn't the least bit surprised by the contract - at the Harlequin Party. We danced. And then we danced. And when we were done, we danced some more. At the Four Seasons. With Pat Potter and dozens of other sister authors dressed to the nines, in a room with paper machet trees and mood lighting, delectable foods and free flowing drinks for anyone who could stay off the dance floor long enough to sip them.

And then Pat and Tim and I walked back to our hotel, with music ringing in our ears and a soft San Fancisco breeze against our skin. Life is good.

HOMEWARD BOUND! (Suzanne Forster)

As you read this, I’m making my way back to my Southern California and my home in Newport Beach. It’s a short flight, just a little over two hours, but trust me, I’ll be traveling all day by the time I get myself packed, make the trip to the airport, go through security and then repeat most of that routine at my destination.

I’m taking an airport shuttle this time. Should be interesting since I’ve been up in the Pacific Northwest a month and have accumulated more junk than one person should be allowed to by law. I actually shipped some of it back UPS. Nevertheless, I’ll still have two big suitcases and a rolling office (carry on) to negotiate, so I’m hoping the shuttle driver is a gallant guy (or gal), who’s willing to help. I’m prepared with bribes of free books and a fat tip!

Normally the family shuttles me up there, but it’s an incredibly long round-trip for my kids who live almost an hour south of me, so I decided to save them some time and lots of gas. Also, I was surprised at how reasonable a one-way ticket was. The drive will be extra long though because we’ll be picking up passengers along the way. Please think good thoughts that the shuttle driver doesn’t get lost this time.

I’ve mentioned in prior blogs that this trip has been an amazing learning experience, but what I learned last weekend is that I DON’T want to play World of War Craft. For the uninitiated, that’s the video game my kids are hooked on. And I don’t just mean my grandkids. I’m talking about my son and his wife. As soon as I saw their living room, I knew something was wrong. Their over-sized flat screen TV is missing. The shades were drawn, the room dark, and the living room sectional was set up with computers on trays, three of them, fancy keyboards and mice, and space age head phone sets.

I can’t describe the game to you beyond saying that you should expect to sign away your life just to learn it. Complicated? Getting an engineering degree at MIT would be easier—and probably necessary. My kids tried to bring me up to speed, even the grand kids were there, interpreting. Of course, World of War Craft has its own language. I couldn’t even keep the names of the characters straight. For some reason, my son has given all his women characters men’s names and vice versa. I got no explanation when I asked why, but he did tell me that he’d also given each of his characters a middle name. Sue, in honor of me.

I tried to pretend I was thrilled to have Billie Sue the red-eyed, Robocop-like Amazon in the breast plate and magical cape named after me, as well as the flying creature she rides on—an elephant I believe, named Ellie-Sue (what else?). I’m sure I wasn’t very convincing, but I don’t think anyone noticed. They couldn’t take their eyes off the computer screen!

Can anyone out there explain this all-consuming obsession with a video game? I love my kids. I would even ride a flying elephant for them, but right now the mother in me is thinking Intervention with a capital I.

So, okay, it was a fun, but challenging time in Olympia. One thing I can say, I’m leaving the condo in far better shape than I found it. I was up at 2 a.m. doing laundry last night. The next visitors here will be my brother and sister-in-law. They’re coming in September, and they actually asked me to leave them a list of things that need to be fixed while they’re here. Bless their hearts, that’s the kind of houseguest you pray for!

Suz, no worse for the wear and just maybe a little bit wiser…

Pedal to the Metal (Anne Stuart)

My darlings -- I'm back from San Francisco, crippled to the max (someone remind me when I have a bad knee, not to bound onstage dancing with joy). I'm hot on the trail of SILVER FALLS, which is due in a horrifying short time, but thanks to the help of Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich I'm very clear on what I'll be doing and I should be able to just charge right ahead.

And here's the delicious news! I'm writing new historicals! I just agreed to a generous two book contract with Mira, writing three (I still had one contracted) delicious historicals with jaded, wicked rakes and stubborn, brave heroines. It's going to be a blast, and I can't wait.

We're living in a rain forest in Northern Vermont this summer, so there's nothing else to do but sit and write (when I'm not watching the Olympics) and I'm feeling like the goddess I am. Psyched about the new books, pleased to death with the RITA, smart and sassy and full of life. My spidey-senses tell me that life is going to be very nice for quite a while, and my spidey-senses are usually right (they knew I'd win the RITA this time around).

I'm almost looking forward to Fall -- it's my favorite time of year, the summer people disappear in droves, the air smells crisp and clean and the leaves turn the most amazing colors (it is Vermont, after all). I'm in a small on-line group where we like to list our appreciation and gratitude for the good things (since it's so easy to get hung up on the bad, the worries, the rain, etc). Right now I'm feeling very grateful indeed, to the universe, to my friends, and to the Girls in the Basement, my muses, who keep delivering me great ideas.

I hope the rest of you are in a similar state of bliss. Here's a suggestion -- at the end of the day, think of three things you're grateful for. Without caveats or limits. Just enjoy.

You can start here. Here are my three:

1. I'm grateful my mother adores her new apartment and her lovely view of the mountains.
2. I'm grateful my visit to the dentist was relatively un-traumatic
3. I'm grateful my niece and her husband came over from England for the weekend and we got to spend time with them sitting by the lake and eating blueberry muffins made with our own blueberries.

So list some of yours. I want to rejoice with your small graces as well as mine.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

When the Can-Opener left...
I was bereft.
Don't tell anyone. I have an image to maintain.
But here's the truth. I spent a lot of time looking out the window, hoping to see the C-O trying to find a parking place. Or, as the Brits would say, "car hardstanding." I've had time to catch up on my reading.



Long, sleepless nights.
I'm all alone.
When, oh, when will the C-O return?
And yet, the substitute C-O supplied me with Fancy Feast Elegant Medleys! Maybe I should go live with her...
But no. I have promises to keep. Abys are the cats famous for being like dogs. That means we are loyal. Too bad about that.
I'd rather be able to bark.




I contemplate my fate.
Lonely days. Empty nights.

Humans should not take vacations!


Well, the Can Opener has returned.
To her credit, the first thing she did was pet me.
But the quality of the food immediately declined, and she's mostly busy catching up with work. I am soooooo taken for granted.
Back to normal, then. First up, a little grooming. The C-O can't resist me when I look purty.