Out With The Old And In With The New. (Patricia Potter). .

Out with the old and in with the new.

More succinctly phrased: the old is out and the new is only beginning.

The old is “Behind the Shadows.” It’s old only to me, and, well, it’s out because it goes on sale next week. In other words this is shameless promotion week for me.

The seed of “Behind the Shadows” was planted years ago when I read about two women in California who discovered they’d been accidently switched at birth in a hospital. It was a mistake. No malice or motive involved. Just a moment’s carelessness that redirected the lives of two women. One came from a wealthy family, the other from a low income family.

How would their lives have changed if no switch had been made?

And what if the switch had really been intentional? What could possibly be the motive?

That was the beginning of the idea. Next came why? Why would someone intentionally switch babies. I ran through a number of ideas and selected the most reasonable. I won’t tell you now because it would destroy the suspense. See if you can figure it out before the end of the book.

The next step is the stakes involved. In any suspense, you have to have high stakes. The higher the stakes, the more compelling the book. What if the stake is the mother’s life of one of the switched babies. The mother desperately needs a kidney transplant and has only a limited time to find a compatible kidney. After being tested to determine whether she can be a donor, the daughter discovers she is not the genetic daughter and sets off to find the real one and convince HER to give a kidney.

It doesn’t matter to Kira whether the other daughter is poor or rich. She only cares about the kidney, but clues lead to a very wealthy young woman who inherited a fortune from her grandfather. The stakes go up another notch. Who should inherit? The granddaughter the grandfather knew or the granddaughter of his blood. Some in-depth legal research determined that such a decision could go either way. More angst.

And why is someone trying to kill both of them?

It was a fun book to write. There’s two strong romances (I adore the two very different heroes), a lot of emotion between the two women and their families, and a number of puzzles. There's a number of suspects, and even I didn't know who the villain was until I wrote the last few pages.

It’s been chosen by five book clubs and I hope you will look for it in their December and January alternate offerings (Rhapsody, Book of the Month, Literary Guild, Mystery Guild and Doubleday). It goes in the bookstores and other retail outlets this coming week.

The new is the beginning of a western I’m writing for Harlequin Blaze. The heroine was orphaned in a mining camp and raised by a trio of godfathers, including a gambler, a gunman and a mule skinner. She’s learned the skills of the three and uses them all when foiling a marshal who’s out to hang one of them.

It’s always a challenge and a joy to create an entirely new world and the characters who inhabit it. You have to know them better than you know your own brother. I’m in the process now of finding out exactly why they became what they are today, and it’s always such a wonderful discovery period. Once I have that firmly down, the book usually writes itself. Or so I hope.

I will be doing an online chat "Shadows" Wednesday, December 10th, at 9 p.m. eastern time on Writerspace. The subject, of course, is "Shadows." Come and visit.

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving. One of the things I’m most thankful for is this community and all of you who come and visit. Friends are truly a wonderful thing.

Oh, and congratulations to our Krissie who has just been named emcee of the RWA’s grand award show. She’ll bring down the house.

Thanks, Santa! (Maggie)

Last year my "New Year's Resolutions" took on a whole new look. Because they weren't just resolutions--stuff I intended to do in the coming year. They were also requests. Things I wanted the Universe to bring to me in the coming year. I wrote them in the form of a letter to Santa, and I am pleased to note that a whole pile of the things I wrote in that letter came to be.

One of the funnier intentions for the year in that letter was that I would accomplish at least one major home improvement project. Ahem. Well, the house burned down, and was entirely rebuilt. It wasn't what I had in mind when I wrote that goal down. But it's better than it ever was. Other things on my wish list were a hot tub (got it!), a pool (not yet!) paying off several major debts (done!) a big garage (not yet) and most importantly, to me, a deepening and strengthening of my romantic relationship (and I got that in spades!) I also intended to travel just for fun, which I've done a bit more of, more quality time with my family, which I've had, and lots of wonderful writing, and I got that too. Aside from the pool and garage, I got everything on my wish list!

And soon it'll be time to begin this year's Dear Santa letter, which I'll happily post here.

But not today. Today is the day when most of us are giving thanks for what we've already got, not asking for more. And that makes sense, because when you're in a state of blissful appreciation, you're in the best possible mode for receiving even more wonderful gifts. So while it may not be original, I'm going to spend my blog today just appreciating.

I appreciate the fire that happened to my life on February 21st, 2008. I'm not saying I'm grateful for it, just that I can see it from a clearer perspective now, enough to appreciate it for what it was. It was a complete death and rebirth, and I feel as if I was reduced to ash and recreated, like a Phoenix. There is no question that every single aspect of my life is better now than before the fire. My house is prettier. My furniture is nicer. My attitude is better. My health is better. My relationships, all of them, have grown and improved and blossomed. My writing is even better now. Hell, I even look and feel better now! So while I wouldn't wish such a trauma on anyone, I appreciate what it did to my life. It cleared out everything and made room for life to be new again. I thought I had done that on my own, but it seems I wasn't quite finished. And now my rebirth is complete and my new life has begun.

I am so thankful that the Universe brings what we focus on. The people and relationships in my life are the best and most cherished things there are to me, and maybe the fire helped me see that more clearly. I have a loving, passionate man in my life. I have women who are not only wise and helpful and beautiful, but who are sisters at a soul level. I have daughters who are blossoming into their own lives and really becoming their fullest selves, and who adore me. I have a huge new suspense trilogy underway that's going to be sheerly brilliant, and launch my career into the stratosphere.

I live in the most beautiful place in the world, maybe with the exception of the red rocks of Sedona. I love it here. I love the sheer thrill I feel when I look outside my window at the snow on the pines, the way it is right now. It's breath taking, is what it is!

I do well, I can pay my bills, and have enough left over to share.

I'm so thankful that I love my life so much. Every single day of it has been sheer bliss, especially lately. When I manage to stop worrying about the future and live in the moment, there's always bliss.

I don't always manage that. And when I start worrying, about what's going to happen next month or next year or about what other people think or feel about me, things can get very bad very fast. Fortunately I know that, and I know when I'm doing it, and I usually don't wallow for more than a few hours at a time. I'm lucky to have friends who can talk me down when I get that way. Or at least who try to. =)

I am so grateful that I'm strong and healthy. I love who I am, I really do. If I didn't, then I'd change.

And I am so thrilled that my experiment with my Dear Santa letter proved so powerfully effective. I can hardly wait to get started on my dear Santa letter for 2009.

But first, I want to pause in appreciation of all I have.

My daughters and grandkids, and great sons-in-law.
The man in my life who makes me feel like a Goddess.
My wonderful, fully restored home, Serenity.
My car, Samantha, who has proven her extreme prowess in the snow
My fantastic dog, Dozer
My women friends: Lee and Michele and Sharyn, all my RomEx sisters, all my Critique Group sisters, all my Witchy Sisters.
My body, which I love. (Oh, I have a few improvements to make, but I love it all the same.)
My health and my strength and my energy.
My big, open heart and how much it loves.
The natural beauty I see everyday, and how it makes my heart sing.
Music. And Art. And movies. And comedy.
My talent for storytelling, handed down genetically from the women of my line.
The career that talent has helped me to build.
Every book and notion and glimmer given to me by my muses.
My muses.
Snow. And Sunshine.
And laughter and reslience and knowing the things I know and learning the things I've learned this past year.

Oh, there's so much more I'm thankful for, I can't even begin to list all of it.

Can you? Give it a try! And really try to feel that feeling of just pure appreciation and gratitude as you make your list!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Maggie

The Point (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Today is pie day. For my entire adult life the holiday season has started with pie day. It's the day before Thanksgiving. And I am the pie maker. Doesn't matter where Thanksgiving is happening, I make the pies. Conveniently, it's worked out that where ever Thanksgiving was happening, pies have been needed. I make four of them. Whether dinner is for five or fifteen. Four pies. Two pumpkin. A pecan. And an apple.

I can still remember the first time I made an apple pie. I was a young adult. In an apartment. I don't know why I had to make an apple pie. I'm fairly confident that I had a reason. Just not one worth remembering apparently. But I do remember the process. Clearly. I was an adult. A woman. I could follow directions. I could make a pie. That's what women did. I had a great cookbook that I got from I have no idea where. I probably knew that back then, too. Today I can tell you that I still have that cookbook. So, whoever gave it to me (probably my mother) thank you.

On that holiday more than twenty years ago, I opened the book to apple pie. And I followed the directions. Literally. To a 't'. That's me. I take everything literally. And when I don't know how to do something, I take it step by. I read one sentence of instruction, complete it and go on to the next. I did precisely that with that pie. I remember being in the kitchen. I remember what the tiny kitchen looked like. I can remember studying and smelling my concoction as it appeared. Every step of the way. Reading and re-reading instructions. Double checking my result.

Satisfied that all seemed fine, I happily, and with a huge amount of relief, delivered my pie to the oven. Set the timer. And waited. Aromas started to waft. To fill the small space. Great aromas. I'd done it. I'd made an apple pie.

The next day, Thanksgiving, I couldn't wait for dessert. To share my creation with everyone. I was a woman now. A cook. They'd all see. I cannot remember what the table looked like. I can't remember who all was sitting there. I can't remember what we ate, what anyone wore, or even what the room looked like that we were in. What I can remember is a table with bodies sitting all around it. And the pie. Oh yeah, I remember that pie.

I had a little trouble cutting it into pieces. I couldn't get the knife to go smoothly through. Couldn't get the pieces to come apart in a clear slice. I forgave myself. I was woman - not perfect. I'd learn to cut.

I served. And then I sat. My own piece of pie lay untouched before me as I waited for all to take their first bites. I watched for reaction. People chewed, and smiled through their chews. Nodded. And chewed. It must be okay, I thought. They were so busy enjoying my wonderful pie that they'd tell me about it when they were done. They didn't want to talk with their mouths full.

I figured I might as well fill my mouth, too. That way when they told me how great the pie was, I'd have an empty mouth with which to accept their praise. I took my bite. I chewed. Once. And stopped. All I can say, as I look back on that moment, is that those people, whoever they were, must have loved me an awful lot. Or at least were nice enough to not want to hurt my feelings. I, suddenly, wasn't all that fond of myself. Nor was I feeling kindly toward me. As soon as that slimy, slightly sharp edged thing hit my tongue, I spit the pie out. Right there in front of everyone. And announced to the table that everyone else was welcome to do the same. I can't remember if anyone did. Or if everyone did. What I remember was the one Thanksgiving in my life where there was no dessert. And it was all my fault.

I didn't know what had gone wrong. I stared at my pie. Dissected it. Tried not to cry. I couldn't look up. And then I remember this voice - it was feminine, though I can't remember to whom the voice belonged. It said only five words. Softly. In question form. And I remember every single one of them. Clearly. In order. "Did you peel the apples?"

What? My head flew up. I hadn't read anything about peeling apples. I went for the cookbook. Opened it to the proper page. See, there was no place there in the directions that said to peel apples. No place. It didn't say to peel apples. I did just what the directions said. It didn't say to peel apples. Well, the voice said, (or some rendition thereof) you just kind of know you have to peel the apples first.

Maybe that's why the whole four pie tradition started. If one is screwed up, there's always another one to offer. A chance to redeem yourself.

And if all four pies are great. I've got another reason to be thankful on a day of giving thanks.

It occurs to me that perhaps the whole four pie thing comes in to play this holiday season where my work is concerned as well. I've decided that that's why there are two books out this holiday season. If you don't like one, I've got another one to offer you. There's "The Holiday Visitor" - a holiday love story. And "At Close Range." A suspense novel. They didn't even put romance on the spine on that one, though, for those who like romance, there is a romantic element there. I'd like to think that with both stories I'm offering you award winning apple pie reading pleasure. And like that first pie, I'm sitting here waiting for your reactions.

I've got the pie thing down. I'm fairly confident that when my house is full on Thanksgiving day with many family members, from out of town and in town, I will be serving up four delicious pies. I've had more than twenty years of practice. And actually, I'm not making all four of the pies. We started a new tradition last year. Tim and I and my mom gather in the kitchen. We have all utensils and ingredients before us. We listen to me ask who wants to make what kind of pie. And then we have a race to see who finishes first. In this race, it is best to finish last. Whoever finishes first has to start on the dishes.

Today is pie day. The official start of the holiday season. Today I'm thinking about all of us, striving in a difficult year to face our challenges successfully. While there might be changes in some of the lavishness this year, I look forward to the holidays with a new awareness of just how important they are. Whatever surface trappings are or are not there, what remains is the point. To love and be loved. To find the joy. And to remember to be aware of and thankful for the things that we have that cannot be taken away.

With that in mind, I wish all you a successful holiday season.

And to the one I love with all my heart who will not be with me on Thanksgiving day, I pray that you are healthy, happy, and feeling loved.

Strange and Wonderful Thanksgiving Traditions (Suzanne Forster)

I love Turkey Day! It’s always been one of my favorite holidays, if not the favorite. As a kid, I loved the fire roaring in the fireplace, permeating my hungry senses with the smells of burning logs and crackling sap. I loved the heat the flames gave out, creating a cocoon to protect us from the crisp fall air that blew in every time someone opened the front door. I especially remember the dining room table, lit by the gleam of our good china and sparkling silverware, which I proudly helped polish. Of course, I relished the gathering of the clan, relatives coming from near and far, even with all the accompanying family drama. But, I have to admit, I loved the food most.

The feast, we called it. Everything about our Thanksgiving feast was scrumptious to me, even the Brussels sprouts, which mom served steamed, with a bit of butter. No fancy cheese sauces to disguise the taste for us. We were a hardy bunch who ate our vegetables straight from the garden. I still love Brussels sprouts to this day, although I rarely serve them, except at Thanksgiving. And I’m happy to say, my son is hooked too. One of my proudest moments was my first Thanksgiving at his home when my daughter-in-law, Carrie, told me that Kenny insisted on Brussels sprouts as one of the vegetables, even though in the beginning he was the only one who liked them. To my way of thinking, that’s how the best traditions start, when the kids take away from family moments the elements they love most, and share them with their own children.

My mom had a way of making every holiday unique with her “rules,” which I later came to realize were actually traditions for everyone else. But my mom was very fond of rules, and one of hers in particular was firm and unyielding. The bird got stuffed the night before Thanksgiving. We now know that isn’t a good idea. Apparently a stuffed bird produces more bacteria, even in the refrigerator, but mom didn’t have the benefit of today’s research. Her only concern was efficiency and she wanted that bird done well ahead of time.

So, the night before the big day, the immediate family gathered, and mom, fortified with nips from a mug of something she kept right next to her on the countertop, went after that twenty-five pound bird with gleaming needle nearly as long as her index finger. To this day I don’t know where she found a needle that big, but she threaded it with old-fashioned twine and set to work, using a wide looping motion that kept all of us ducking to protect our eyes and other vital parts. It was dangerous in the kitchen with mom stitching up the bird. Everybody knew they’d better stay clear of her flying needle, but for some reason, we all wanted to watch. And besides, she was going to need help carting her handiwork to the refrigerator afterward. No harm could come to the bird!

Now that I’m many years married and living in California, we spend Thanksgiving with my husband’s son’s family. It’s still a gathering of the clan and many traditions are observed, all of them wonderful, though some do seem slightly strange to me, probably because they’re not my family’s traditions. Cynthia, David’s wife, is amazingly artistic and likes to mold, chill and sculpt butter into little turkeys for the table. The problem is the butter turkeys are so beautiful they should never be eaten! And one of the relatives always brings a huge bowl of sauerkraut, which nearly overwhelms the smell of the turkey. Other than that, the food is fabulous, and I always manage to stuff myself, even though no Brussels sprouts are served. Now that I think about it, Brussels sprouts are pretty stinky too—and might well offend their Thanksgiving sensibilities the way sauerkraut offends mine, lol.

Because I’m such a Thanksgiving nut, Allan and I celebrate twice. The official Thanksgiving is the one we share with our family here. Thanksgiving #2 is the one I cook the weekend after the 25th. I can never get enough turkey and trimmings, so we always buy a small turkey for us, stuff it and cook an entire dinner just the way my mom did. Almost. Mom would not entirely approve because I don’t stuff the bird the night before, or at all. I bake the stuffing separately, but I swear it’s just as delicious. And the best part is the leftovers. We have tons of them! Most years we end up freezing layers of leftover turkey, stuffing, potatoes and gravy in a dish we warm up in the microwave. We call it our turkey stew. Not fancy, but rich and flavorful to the max.

What are your Thanksgiving traditions? I’ve noticed that often the strange ones are the stuff of great memories. Do you have any of those? Or a favorite Thanksgiving food? As much as I love the Brussel sprouts, the moist dark turkey meat, buttery crusty stuffing and brown gravy, made from the drippings, are my real favorites.

Suz

P.S. Just remembered another tradition: Pumpkin pie for breakfast the next morning. YUM.

Gratitude (Anne Stuart)

Things to be grateful for:
A book I love (the one I'm writing)
A cat in my lap
Apple computers
My big television
My children are happy
my mother is happy
rock and roll
Crystal lite lemonade
J-rock
Dir en grey being in San Francisco so my daughter can go see them
Simon Baker
Chinese food
quilt fabric
QVC
Disney World
glossy magazines
Yoshiki
Gackt
Connie's donuts
Viking Husqvarna's sewing machines
Bernina sewing machines
Venice
Tokyo
Laura Kinsale
and a thousand other things.

But most of all I'm grateful for the people I love, and the people who love me. Fortunately there are a fair number of them.

What are you grateful for this year?

The Christmas Gift Dilemma (Patricia Potter)

Ah, it’s getting to be that Christmas gift problem time again.

The economy is not making the season easy on anyone. Participants on one writer’s loop are already talking about what to do this year. Some of their families have suggested cutting down this year, giving one present per family rather than separate gifts to each member.

What to do?

My family has also discussed changing our gift policies this year. The middle generation had a meeting and decided to do away with individual gifts by and for everyone (there’s about 23 members that usually exchange gifts.) Admittedly gift-getting has been getting difficult and expensive as the family grows larger.

So the middle generation (my married nieces and nephews) decided that they would draw names and give one really nice gift to one of their siblings/nieces/ nephews/cousins instead of a multitude of smaller ones.

Well, I was kinda in favor. For the last four years I’ve been buying gifts that would come from my mother as well as from me. It meant spending much of the year gathering more than forty gifts and spending most of December wrapping them.

So I welcomed drawing that number down to a more manageable number.

My brother, the patriarch, said absolutely not. The others could do what they wanted, but he’s the king of Christmas. For years, he dressed up as Santa for on Christmas Eve. Christmas has always been high on his list of favorite things. Both he and his wife love shopping for presents. But then they’re retired and my brother is a former doctor.

I’m the daughter, sister, aunt and great aunt, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I’ve always been a huge Christmas person myself. I buy treasures throughout the year, but I see the wisdom of what the younger generations want to do. Some have good incomes. Others are struggling. It’s not fair to feel you have to keep up.

I imagine many of you out there are struggling with the same problem. How to have Christmas on less? What to do? Well, I decided to expand what I started last year, and that’s to make buttered pecans for all the couples. They are always the hit of any party, and last year I gave them to four members of the family at yule time. They were delighted. So this year, I think every one is going to end up with pecans.

I’m enclosing the recipe below for anyone who might want to try them. You can usually get a great price for pecans at Costco or Sam’s Club. Tin and pecans together cost about $10 if you can buy pecans in quantity.


Pat’s Buttered Pecans

Preheat the oven to only 200 degrees. Use a baking pan (I use an brownie
size pan), spread about a pound of pecans at the bottom of the pan, along with
half a stick of butter and bake for about fifteen minutes until butter is
melted. Then mix the pecans until each one is thoroughly coated with butter.
Salt. Then bake again at 150 degrees for about an hour. Add the rest of the
stick of butter and again make sure each pecan is coated. Add a little more
salt. Then bake for about two hours between warm and l50 degrees. I check
every thirty minutes, sometimes adding butter but always moving them around to
make sure each is thoroughly coated. Make sure they don't burn or darken too
much. You can best judge your own oven. The secret is frequent checks, low
heat and moving them around so each is coated. You want the butter and salt to slowly bake into the pecans without burning them. When finished, spread on
paper towels to dry.

Tasting for the right amount of salt is important (g). But be careful, there
is nothing quite as good as a hot buttered pecan and you could gobble them all up.

Stored in a can or jar, they stay fresh and wonderful for weeks. Lynn keeps
hers for months and says they are just as good when she finishes as when she
starts. I usually put them in a Christmas tin in quantities of one or two
pounds.

They also make good gifts for teachers, neighbors, etc.

###

Still another idea posted on the writer’s blog is a family recipe book. My nieces authored one about ten years ago and it’s one of my favorite possessions. They got recipes from each of us along with a story behind the recipe: a special birthday treat in the Potter household, a Christmas dish (mine was my dad’s super-dooper fudge); a July 4th speciality or just someone’s favorite story evolving around food.

Every time I look at that book, great memories come flooding back. It’s one of those gifts that keep on giving.

###
In the meantime, are you planning to cut down on Christmas this year?
Do you have innovative ideas – and inexpensive ideas --for gifts.

Please share.

HAVE A WONDERFUL THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!!!!!!

Radio Days (Anne Stuart)

So I spaced out on Monday, my usual day, so I'm skipping over to Friday, and I'm feeling ruminative. Hmm, interesting word. Means thinking over some things, but comes from ruminant, or cud-chewing animals. And what the hell's a cud? And do cows really have five stomachs?

But anyway, I've been thinking, and it ain't about cows. First off, I've bee thinking about radio stations. I've mentioned before that I have satellite radio (Sirius) which came free with Thelma, the electric blue PT Cruiser I bought in honor or ICE BLUE. My favorite station was called Disorder, and it had fabulous music, from African to Opera, Celtic to Klezmer. It had Vin Scelsa and his amazing political rants, and David Johannsen and his amazing philosophical rants. I listened to it every time I drove, scribbling down songs I'd hear on a scrap of paper, nearly driving off the road, and then going home and searching iTunes for them.

And then suddenly it was gone. Disappeared, and some crap music like ACDC was in its place. Aaaaargh. The same thing happened years ago when I was living in New York. I listened to WNEW-FM, which was the cultural center of my life. Suddenly it became slightly boring, and WABC-FM picked up the slack. They became even more radical, changed their name to WPLJ (White Port Lemon Juice) and I listened to it constantly. And then it was suddenly pop. Shudder. It was gone, stolen by the PTB and I was bereft. It was part of the reason I left the city and moved to Vermont.

Now Sirius has done the same thing to me, and I was outraged, tempted to take a sledge hammer to Thelma's lovely dashboard. But I calmed down, and fate rewarded me. Vin Scelsa and David Jo are on a new channel, The Loft, and Larry Kirwan shows up on Spectrum, which was always my second favorite channel. Can you tell I like a really wide range of music?

So Sirius lives another day in my estimation. But they better not mess with my music again.

Let me thing what favorite songs from different genres are:

1. Broadway music -- Phantom of the Opera. 'Nuff said. There's the sweep of "Almost like Being in Love", the heartbreak of "Send in the Clowns." "As if We Never Said Goodbye" from "Sunset Boulevard gave me the genesis for SHADOWS AT SUNSET. A million others.
"
2. Popular music -- older version: "Night and Day." Incredibly erotic song. "Someone to Watch over Me." 1940s music like "Chattanooga Choo Choo" and Andrews Sisters. Play it loud and sing along.

3. Pop music -- more current. You know Barry Manilow is incredibly sappy unless you think of his songs as stuff from a Broadway musical. Then all that sweeping angst makes sense. "Weekend in New England," "Trying to Get the Feeling", even the oft-maligned Mandy.

4. Classic country: Loretta Lynn and "You Ain't Woman Enough to Take my Man" and "Don't Come Home a-drinking with Loving on Your Mind." Hand me a guitar and I can sing both of them. There's Merle Haggard, who's a god, Tammy Wynette, Waylon Jennings. Great stuff.

5. New country - Dixie Chicks, of course. Go, Natalie! Lyle Lovett, Dwight Yoakum, Steve Earle, Roseanne Cash.

6.Hip hop (also known as rap to you old guys). DMX. Just be careful not to sing his songs out loud if you're out in public.

7. African music. Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Yousou N'Dour. I'm just learning about it and loving it.

8. Japanese music. Gackt (be still my heart). X-Japan. L'arc-en-Ciel. Siam Shade. Hikaru Utada. Still probably my favorite music. I even have a j-rock Christmas mix I gathered from various sources

9. Opera. "Que Faro Senza Euridice?" from Orfeo and Euridice. Sung by a counter-tenor. I've decided to learn it (fat chance). "Black Swan" from The Medium. La Boheme slays me every time, softie that I am. And of course all the stuff that ends up in movies like "O Mio Babbino Caro" (in Room with a View).

10. Celtic music. Oh, all of it. Silly Wizard and Steeleye Span have always been favorites, and Fairport Convention for giving us Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson.

11. Native American new age -- Carlos Nakai and Alice Gomez.

12. Classic rock - The Band probably most of all. Flying Burrito Brothers (Gram Parsons was the love of my life), Buffalo Springfield, Little Feat, Moby Grape, Fleetwood Mac. A thousand others but these are the ones that mattered most.

13. Singer-songwriters. Dylan, of course. He's an alien -- no human could have bee so powerful. Neil Young, Gram Parsons, Richard Thompson (my absolute favorite), John Hiatt.

14. French -- Pascal Obispo, Florent Pagny, Yves Montand, Charles Aznavour (young and old).

15. I could go on forever. There's such an incredible richness of music out there -- from all worlds and cultures. Here's your task for today -- listen to a form of music you've never heard before. You can find it on the web on one of the radio sites like www.live365.com.

You might fall in love.

So tell me what obscure kind of music you like. What have I missed? Of course I didn't mention even 1% of the music I adore, but there's still more magic out there. (Think of the Everly Brothers! John Denver, sappy though he was. Tons of great stuff).

So tell me what I've missed. Or who's worth re-discovering. Or what music you'd lay down and die for.

With my radio stations in transition I need new music.

That Time of Year! (Maggie)

Forgive the shameless self-promotion, but I'm photo shy this week (after forgetting to post at all last week!) and I thought this one fit the spirit of the day. (Not to mention that it's on sale now!)

There's snow covering the ground and the deck and the pine trees outside. And on Saturday I'm hosting an early Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. All five daughters are coming, families and all, and so is my grandma. It'll be the first family gathering in my home since she was rebuilt, and it'll be just exactly what Serenity and I need to kick off the holiday season. I haven't even decorated yet. Then again, I haven't really finished moving back in yet either. I still have several boxes to unpack. I still have several rooms to furnish. I still have lots of decorating to do. I haven't even put up all the curtains yet! It's an ongoing process. It's tough to try to do my writing-type work and restore my house to a home at the same time, because all I really want to do is shop and play with the house.

I've called a halt to the shopping, though. With the exception of a desk chair, I'm done buying furniture for the moment. I need to stop spending on the house and start spending on the family, being holiday time and all. After January I'll write, replenish the bank accounts (I hope) and finish furnishing the house. I keep promising pictures and I'm slow in getting them to you. I'm a month overdue on updating my home web site, too, I think. There's just more to do than I have time to do.

I woke up yesterday morning feeling overwhelmed before I even got out of bed. My mind was racing with the list of things that had to be done that day. I knew there was no way I could get them all done. But later, as I checked my email, I got my daily quote from Abraham-Hicks.com, and it was long and involved, but the gist of it was, "The only thing you really need to do today, is be happy." And it made me smile and sigh and relax. Because it was so true. Just be happy. Do what you can, and the rest will wait. If you do everything on your list, or if you do nothing on your list, the world is going to keep turning and nothing's going to fall apart. All is well. Thank goodness!

This is a really great attitude to grab hold of right now, and hold onto through the coming holiday season. Too many of us--mostly females--forget to enjoy the holidays because we're so busy trying to make them perfect for everyone else. That's just a shame. Life's too short.

So give yourself the first gift of the season. Wake up in the morning, and say to yourself, "The only thing I really need to do today, is be happy." And the rest will fall softly, easily, peacefully into place for you.

Hope that helps!

And now, here we go. It's time. Ready, set, HOLIDAYS!

Hugs,
Maggie

My Mommy's Coming To Town

This is my mom. She's a beauty, huh? I've known her my whole life. That's a long time. And in the past two years, I've had the gift of getting to know the woman who has always existed behind and inside of the role of mother. A woman with needs and hopes and desires and hurts. With goals and drives and disappointments. A woman with a purpose on this earth that goes far beyond being a mother to me and my brothers. A woman with a life as full and compelling and at times, as desperate, as my own. I'm ashamed that it took me so long to figure out that mothers are just as much full people as men and children are. They need things for themselves. They have lives outside of raising children.

It started two years ago right now. I was planning a seventieth surprise birthday bash for her. With the help of her younger by two years sister, I'd found addresses for people my mother had known since she was in grade school and on through the present. I wrote to them asking for stories. For anything about my mother that stood out to them. The replies were far more than I'd ever conceived possible. She had this whole life, was this whole other person I knew nothing about. Before I was born, and after. I received a letter from the man my mother was in love with when this picture was taken. She wanted to marry him. He wanted to wait until they had more money. I also received a letter from that man's wife. A lovely woman who belonged with that man. But who would have thought? My mom, an eighteen year old girl with guy/girl feelings, needing to get married. The emotions the story evokes were so foreign to me in regards to my mother. As were many of the others.
Look at her. Isn't she cute? She was chosen to represent the virgin Mary in a Catholic ceremony at her school when she was in the eighth grade. That was shortly after her mother had been killed in a car accident, leaving nine children semi-orphaned. My mother was fourth youngest. One of the oldest still at home. She spent her high school years in turmoil, sometimes at home with the father she loved and a step mother who didn't seem all that fond of her. And sometimes living with various older sisters and their families. One of those four years she spent in Alaska with one of her older sisters and brother-in-law and their three toddlers, shipped out over a weekend without even having a chance to tell her best friends. Is it any wonder that, at eighteen, living alone in her own apartment, she was ready for marriage? To not be alone? To have a family of her own?
And marriage she got. She had a fight with previously mentioned wanting-more-money-before-marriage-guy in January of 1956. And that night, through another older sister and another brother-in-law, she met my dad. He'd been divorced three times. Was almost 13 years older than she was. And my mom was hooked. She fell in love that night and never looked back. She was disowned by much of her family. Disowned by her church. I can't even imagine the pain of all that, for a just turned nineteen year old girl who'd already lost so much. She was one strong woman. Determined. Able to follow her heart. To be true to her. And all I saw was a mother - there for me and my brothers. And my dad. Period. (By the way, that's my older brother and I up there with her. She was only twenty-four!)
And all the while my mother was busy being a person, I was busy thinking she was just my mother. She was the one I hugged when I got home from working at Wendy's to find a ribboned and bowed car in the driveway for me for my birthday. She was the one I posed with when I graduated from college. And she was the one I called, while the doctor was still doctoring, sixty seconds after my daughter was born. Here she is holding her first grandchild. My daughter. This was taken just minutes after Rachel was born. It's four o'clock in the morning. And my mom's wearing hose and a skirt. I love that!
And this is my mom just a couple of years ago. Still my mom. With me. And Rachel all grown up.

We were baking cookies that day. All day. A twelve hour long leg aching, back breaking day filled with tradition that has been a part of the Christmas holidays for as long as I can remember. We bake dozens and dozens and dozens of cookies.

The big poodle there right in front of my mom is mom's dog. Really her dog. We had dogs when I was growing up. And my mom always took care of them. She was the one who trained them. Who took them to the groomers and the vet. Who bathed them. But the dogs always belonged to someone else. There was Angel, my poodle. I got her for my thirteenth birthday. And I took her with me seven years later when I left home. Then there was Cherie, my little brother's dog. And Magic, my father's dog. It wasn't until after my father was gone and my mother was living alone in the home they'd had built together that my mother finally got her own dog. Erin is almost eleven now. And they just removed a cancerous growth from her throat. But my mom's a strong woman. A determined woman. Erin's happy. She's got energy and is eating well. She's already outlived the life expectancy of a standard poodle; outlived her mother and grandmother, so my mother is determined to be happy. She's enjoying every second she has with Erin. Keeping her close.
And I see a woman who is hurting. Not a mother. A woman. Who lives alone and could lose the loved one who stepped into my mother's home, her life, when my father died. We knew it was coming. We knew Erin's life expectancy. We know how old she is. So last year I did some reading and found out that dog's live longer with a puppy around. And for Christmas, Tim and I drove all over Arizona, finding just the perfect puppy. We were lucky. Little Buddy is a lover. Literally. He hugs. He puts his little paws around your neck and presses his head up to you and hangs on. And Erin did get younger. She still is. Buddy is keeping her alive. They play constantly. She mother's him. He cleans her eyes and ears. And my mom's training yet another dog.
Here's another thing the woman inside my mother always wanted. A Mustang Convertible. That's her, in her garage, the day she brought it home. It's silver. Leather interior. All the media gadgets and fun things you could want. Erin's in the car with her, too. She rides in the middle of the back. And when Tim and I visit, that's where I ride. Tim drives, of course. He and the woman I've come to know tool around with the top down, talking and listening to music while I sit in the back and get my brains blown in a mass of roaring air that drowns out any other sound that might be in the vicinity. I'm not a back seat rider. I tend to get claustrophobic and sick, but when the top's down, and I'm holding Tim's hand - yes, even from the back seat, I'm incurable - life is good.
This woman I've come to know loves to travel. And to learn. Who'd have guessed? The entire time I was growing up we always just went to the family cabin. I thought that was what she wanted. Or I just accepted and assumed. I never really asked, or questioned. As though her wants and needs didn't exist. She and I have been to Vegas together several times. Alone a few times. With 'the girls' for Rachel's 21st birthday, and with Tim. Those are some fabulous memories. I hope, someday, that Tim and Mom and I can go to her beloved Ireland and she can show us the country she's grown to love.
And beyond all of the things my mother wanted, beyond the mothering and the examples and the teaching, I've discovered many things about the woman who is my mother. We've had a miracle year. Things have happened that brought us to a place where anything could be said. Old hurts were aired. And in the airing we found that most of the hurts were caused by circumstances outside the two of us. My father was responsible for some of them. That's not easy to accept, especially since he isn't here to account for them, or to defend himself, yet, there's great peace and joy in knowing that things were not always what they seemed to me. And if I'd only seen my mother as a complete person, as an individual, I would have seen the truth of those circumstances a long time ago. I would have known not to believe that she didn't want me in her home. I would have seen how badly she was hurting. Probably worse than I was.
If I'd have seen her as a whole and complete person, not this perfect persona of example and teaching and support, I would have gone to her when things in life got too crazy, instead of bottling up thirty years of perceptions and hurts. I would have talked to her when I fell in love and didn't understand how to be in love. I would have told her when I was mistreated in college. I would have had a best friend as well as a mother.
If I'd known, I'd have understood that when my mother seems logical and approaches problems without emotion is when she's hurting the most. That's when the woman wraps herself in that incredible strength and helps us all, including herself, through whatever it is we must endure. And inside, all alone, she's crying.

I see her hurting now. Not just because of Erin, but because life is hard. My mom lost her mother at twelve. Her firstborn son when he was 24. She lost me for a time. And my father almost ten years before his actual death, though she cared for him, loved him every day of those difficult ten years. She's lost all three of her brothers. All but two of her sisters. And this year, as prices have been exacted from me, she's lost vital parts of her, too. She worries. And she hopes. And, like me, she tries to understand the inexplicable.
But we have each other now. Tim and I both have a best friend in her. My mother is an integral part of our family. A part of us. She has a home with us. And if there is ever a time when she is unable to care for herself, her home will be with us permanently. She knew Tim thirty years ago. She used to push me to go out with him - not that I needed any pushing! Looking back now, as a mother and as a mature woman, I can understand some of her desperation. I was eighteen when I fell in love with Tim. And I'd never been on a date in my life. I'd never even kissed a guy. I was too busy reading my romances and saving myself for prince charming. I never went to a dance, not to prom, or even to a party. I can only imagine the amount of relief my mother felt when I brought this boy home from college and suddenly could talk about or think about little else. She was the one who invited him to spend the night when it wasn't safe for him to drive home. (We lived forty-five minutes apart.) She was the one who encouraged me to go with him to his home for New Year's Eve, to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. She helped me get ready when I went to his work Christmas party - and gave me my grandmother's sapphire and diamond necklace to wear. She was my friend, being a friend, if only I'd seen that. I dated a bit after Tim broke my heart. (He says I broke his. In reality we were too young to know what hit us and I was too busy living my 'Harlequin Romance' life to know how to handle the real thing.) But the only pictures my mom had in her family album of me with the opposite sex, other than family, were of me and Tim. Even now. After all those years. There are some things moms just know.

Or women know.

Or the woman who lives inside my mother knew.

I just thank God I know that woman, now.

Middle of the Night Meanderings (Suzanne Forster)

I woke up at three a.m. last Saturday night. Generally, no good can come of waking in the wee hours, but in this case, there were a couple of perks. First, what woke me up was a cool idea for a linked paranormal series, and that’s always fun for a writer, even in the dead of the night. Actually, that may be the best time for anything paranormal. Once I got the idea down on paper, I couldn’t sleep, so I turned on the TV and low and behold, there was a great paranormal romance I’d seen several years ago: Meet Joe Black with Brad Pitt, Claire Forlani and Anthony Hopkins. It had been long enough since I’d seen the movie that I couldn’t remember exactly why it had made such an impression on me. I just knew that certain images from the movie had stayed with me, which is saying something.

I’m generally terrible about details and don’t retain things unless they burn themselves into my brain. So, the fact that vivid images came quickly to mind meant this was one of those experiences that fall into the “haunting” category. When something haunts me, whether book, movie, music or even an item of clothing that won’t let me leave the store until I buy it, I know that a chord has been touched in me—and I need to pay attention. But in this case, all I had were those images, and I probably shouldn’t share them now because some of you may not have seen Meet Joe Black.

So, there I was, wide awake and glued to the movie, curious about what had captured my imagination all those years ago—and wondering whether it would still work for me. It did. MJB definitely belongs in the haunting category, at least for me. I loved the premise, the situation, the characters, the ambience, the setting, just about everything. Brad, Claire, Anthony Hopkins and Marcia Gay Harden were perfectly cast. Compelling narrative questions were raised, and more important, answered satisfactorily. The story has universal themes and emotional resonance and the ending works—and really good endings are hard to pull off when one or more of the characters are supernatural beings. So, the stakes were high.

Meet Joe Black started me thinking about other romantic movies that I’ve loved over the years. Some of them had paranormal elements, like Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Somewhere in Time with the late Chris Reeve. Another favorite was an older movie called Heaven Can Wait with Warren Beatty and Dyan Cannon, where Beatty plays an angel. There was also the television series, Beauty and the Beast, with that amazing subterranean set, and another one of my film favorites—Lady Hawke with Rutger Hauer and Michelle Pfeiffer, where a spell has turned her into a hawk by day and him a wolf by night. That one also left me with indelible images.

Although there was no obvious romance in The Matrix, I saw lots of possibilities for Neo and Trinity, and for me, that made it intensely romantic. And then at the very end, when Neo is dying, Trinity tells him of the Oracle’s prophecy that she would fall in love with The One—and that she loved him, Neo, and therefore he must be The One, which was a central question of the movie. It was a long wait, but well worth it, and all the more so, I would argue, because the movie was really not a romance in the conventional sense, so every little scrap of romance was a treasure.

Of course, I was always seeing possibilities for Dr. Spock on Star Trek, and desperately wanting him to meet his match and engage, so to speak. That unattainable quality is very powerful in a hero, or antihero. Dr. House has it in the television series. In the first season I found myself hoping for a close encounter between him and the innocent young Cameron, who seemed to be wishing for the same thing. Ah, love. Done well, there’s nothing better than forbidden love.

All of this tells me that I really must be an incurable romantic, which raises the question are the movies romantic or do our imaginations make them romantic? Have you found any movies romantic that aren’t obviously so, like The Matrix?

Others I’ve loved have more conventional romantic elements, and the list is long. I’m not sure how many times I’ve seen Moonstruck with Cher & Nick Cage, but it must be a half dozen at least. The Bodyguard had superb sexual tension, some great dramatic moments and a heartbreaker of a soundtrack. And of course, there was Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans. What a performance! Many of us are still waiting for him to play another grand romantic hero, but we probably shouldn’t be holding our breath. I did love There Will Be Blood, but romantic … uh, no.

Let’s see now, my list wouldn’t be complete without The Thornbirds, although I must admit that I liked the book by Colleen McCullough better than the mini-series. What are your favorite romantic movies? I just realized I didn’t mention any of the Jane Austin classics, and I’ve loved them all. Do your favorites stay with you in that haunting way I mentioned? Do you get your fix by watching them repeatedly? Please feel free to leave lists, if you have them. I’m always looking for a great new love story.

Suz

Ramblings (Patricia Potter)

It’s this and that time again.

First of all, I have to write my annual ode to fall. Yesterday was a gorgeous fall day in the mid-south as we Memphians call our region. Temperatures in the upper 60's. Trees are a bright red and yellow. My impatiens and azaleas are still blooming and their vivid color makes a fine contrast to the fall colors.

Foot traffic has increased. My morning walk with Ting Ting is not as solitary as it is in deep summer and winter. There are is about two months in the fall and another two in the spring when I renew any number of community acquaintances. Those are walking months. Those are stopping-and-talking months.

Fall has always been my favorite season. In the south and probably the east, there is a smoky, woodsy smell. Blooms last until the first frost, which often doesn’t come until December. The crisp breeze gives an added bounce to my elderly Shih Tzu’s steps and, I might add, to my own. I like pulling out my old sweatshirts and turning off the air conditioning. I like the fog and even the mist. And the harvest moon is glorious.

I often think about moving somewhere else. To the western mountains, or to the ocean. Even to other countries, like Belize, or even Italy’s Tuscany region. A friend of mine just bought a house in Florida and I turned to her real estate company’s web site and spent several pleasurable hours going through the houses. I did the same thing with California after my July trip with fellow blogger Lynn.

Day dreaming is quite wonderful. It doesn’t cost anything.

I usually get my wanderlust and “what ifs” in March, in that messy month between winter and spring. It sort of crept up on me early this year.

But oh, how I would miss the mid-south seasons. Unlike the far northeast region, fall lasts for a very long time, and so does spring. We really have two-and-a- half-month winter seasons, and even then the temperature rarely sinks beneath forty and usually ranges in the fifty to sixty degree range. If lucky, we have one day of snow.

So despite my daydreaming I'll probably remain here forever. I can live in other places through my books. And that's one of the joys of being a writer. We can live so many different lives.

_______

An update on Lynn: I talked to Lynn Friday, and it was good. Her voice sounded strong and her determination steady. She's surviving the chemotherapy, but it’s taking a toll. We talked about that only briefly, though. We talked mostly about friends and how much they mean in times of trouble.

Since I’ve started writing, I’ve made the best friends I’ve ever had in my life. Perhaps it’s because we’re all in the same turbulent waters. Perhaps because most of us are a bit schizophrenic. We are loners who have a longing to be something else, and that something else emerges among other writers. Perhaps because few non-writers understand what it is to have so many characters dancing in your head. How easy it is to get lost in our tales and forget paying a bill or missing a birthday. How we often go endless miles out of the way because we don't see that turn; the story has crowded everything else from our mind. (I even forgot a very important wedding in the midst of a story going well). How we often wake up in the middle of the night and frantically reach for the light switch and a pen. How we worry when waiting for a new contract or how a new book (our child) will be received.

These peculiarities make for strong, binding friendships, and when one is in trouble, there’s a tendency to band together and do whatever we can to help. It’s agonizing being more than a thousand miles away and so limited to what we can do.

But we can and do send all our love and we ever so appreciate all of you out there who are sending hugs and prayers and support. I thank you, and Lynn thanks you.

Another Friday Closer

I was waiting to post today, hoping that maybe Lynn would make it out to us. The journey is still just a bit too far for her to wander.

This was her not the worst hell on earth week. Chemo is knocking her down and she has one week where she can at least answer her phone sometimes. Followed by another treatment and three full weeks of working toward standing back up again to go get more.

Our friend is in a world of hurt. And she's still determined to get back here to us. Thankfully the hurt is mostly medicine related and the cure still looks imminent.

Please don't ever think you've sent her enough love or strength. Or that she's tired of hearing our same old words. I think what we're all doing here, joining our strength together across the nation to send power to one of us who is lacking her own, is life in its fullest, deepest sense.

We might not be there folding clothes, or cleaning up chemo sickness, like I wish I was, but we're making a difference. We're helping. I love the fact that we can. That love works.

I am very thankful for every single one of you out there who continue to shower Lynn with the power that beats all powers. You make life worth living.

My Babies (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I am a mother. A nurturer. I think I was born that way. Well, except for that little blip out of time I took when I was two and reportedly would sit on my one year older brother's back while he was watching TV and pull his hair while he laid there quietly watching his shows with tears rolling down his cheeks. I'm going to think that I didn't know he was crying or I would have stopped, dried his tears, and found a way to soothe the wound.

I'm not always good at nurturing, but always, the need to nurture is there. It's my first instinct. My largest desire. I need to take care of those I love.

And right now, circumstances are preventing much of that. I'm being told no. I'm going insane with all the 'no's.' Even my computer is telling me no. My desktop computer. The nice big one with the screen that doesn't give me optic migraines. It's suddenly come down with a virus. And the virus won't let me download anti-virus software. It won't let me on the Internet to get a fix. I've nurtured for about six hours in the past two days and it continues to throw up on me.

But just about when I'm at the point of thinking that I might as well give up, that my brand of nurturing is not right for this world, I have this little paw scratching at my thigh. And when I look down, there are two big brown eyes in a sweet little furry face, staring up at me intently. Filled with message. With need. With hope. And my focus is back.

On the babies.

Today I'm thinking about six of them.

One isn't a baby at all anymore, but she'll always be my baby. I have her law school graduation picture on my PDA phone. I carry her with me every single place I go. What I'd give to be able to drive half an hour to wait another half hour to have sixty seconds of her time, do her a favor, and drive another half hour back to my office. I mean that. I miss that so much.

Two is still a baby. She'll always be a baby. She's my little savior and I'm her willing slave. She laid the parameters for the relationship, but I accept them wholeheartedly. She's on my lap now, curled up asleep. Content in knowing that she reigns. That she is loved. And when she wakes up and starts scratching on my arm, I'll rub her. And keep rubbing her. Taylor Marie loves her rubs. And I love her.

Three - well I don't know what he is. A big baby. Without a lot of, well, shall we say, education? Jerry's...Jerry. And he's loyal. And loving. And time consuming. He needs to be nurtured. And I need him.

Four...not four in importance, just fourth on this list today, is my nine year old niece. She's not a baby. But she's my baby in my heart. 'Enquiring minds want to know' describes her. She's sensitive and aware of everything and everyone around her. She spent Saturday learning string games with her Dad, which made her perfectly happy, and her smile soothes my heart.

Five...by order of birth still has a tiny bit of baby in her. She's a trip. A drummer who clearly hears her own beat. She reminds me of me. And I feel sorry for my brother and his wife when she's a teenager. I figure I might be needed then. She's a lover. And because she's so young, she still feels safe giving her affection to everyone who walks in her door. I dread the day that changes. And pray that I'm still on the side she trusts to care about. Right now, one of her biggest upsets is the fact that she doesn't get to do everything her nine year old sister can do. She's only four. Not old enough. She doesn't think that's fair. So...this little princess being who she is, has announced that on her next birthday she's turning eight. Period. No negotiations. Problem solved.

Six...but definitely not least is my little Bubby. From the moment that soul was a dot on an ultrasound, he's had my heart. His grin heals hurt every single time. He's three and all boy. And with Down Syndrome he's a little slower than the girls to get to all of his growing stages. But that doesn't seem to faze him. Or upset him. He just proceeds at his own pace - the happiest little guy I've ever known. On Saturday, for the first time, I heard real words come out of him. He's made sounds, said words, but they weren't clearly articulated. On Saturday, they were. Only one at a time. And that was perfect. His voice was sweet. Smooth. And a miracle. I picked him up and hugged him and I've been worrying ever since that I hugged him too tight and that he'll associate pain with my hugs and not want them anymore. He didn't squirm or appear to be uncomfortable, but I am a worrier. I want to rush back and hug him softly.

There are others I need to nurture. Some I can, some I can't. But the need is always there. Pressing to be released. I guess it's all part of being a woman.

And I'm okay with that.

What Happens in Vegas! (Suzanne Forster)

Well, I don’t know what happens to other people in Vegas, but I can tell you what happens to me—I get stuck there! Last weekend was the second time in as many years that I’ve gone to a family get together in Sin City (is it still called that?), only to get stranded there. Both times it was my son’s idea. Every year his company sends their best salespeople to Vegas, and he thought it would be fun for me to join the festivities.

I wasn’t so sure. My last trip to Vegas had been his idea too. That was a combined wedding and family reunion on his dad’s side, and I got stranded at the airport on arrival and departure. The arrival amounted to some confusion about who was supposed to pick me up at the airport. I cooled my heels for about two hours, but that was nothing compared to the departure. I’ve dubbed it The Long Night of the Bates Motel. My flight out was delayed three times and finally cancelled at eleven pm that night. My son and the rest of the family were flying back to the Pacific Northwest and had all left that morning, so I was all by my lonesome. One of the passengers kicked up such a fuss at the cancellation that the airlines offered to put us up at motels nearby, but trust me, they weren’t doing us any favors. Most of the passengers had the sense to refuse. Silly me!

I won’t go into the gruesome details, but the taxi ride alone was one of the more terrifying experiences of my life. The driver spoke no English, and I’m still not sure he took me to the right place. One piece of advice here: Don’t stay at a motel where the window blinds come apart in your hand when you try to lower them and the door lock won’t work! I ordered pizza once I got in the room, but was afraid to open the door when the delivery guy showed up. Only my ravenous hunger overcame my fear. I slept in my clothes, of course, if you can call it sleeping.

Naturally, I was not anxious to repeat that experience, but eventually the kids talked me into going. And there was one good omen. I had another new book out. The first Vegas trip was during The Arrangement’s release. This time it was The Private Concierge. I’d been asked to do a signing for The Arrangement, but there was too much going on. This time I made it a point to schedule that in, and I got to hang out with some readers while I was there. That was great fun.

For the most part, the weekend went amazingly well. We ate at a steakhouse called Nero’s one night and had a veritable feast. It was all luscious. I had lobster!!!!!!! Yummm, but I have to say that the decaf cappuccino I had afterward was even more memorable. Simply the best cappuccino I’ve ever had—and this from someone who doesn’t love decaffeinated coffee. It rarely has the flavor or richness of the real thing. Now that I think about it, I should have asked what kind of coffee they were using.

I was also surprised at the crowds. Given the economy, I expected a ghost town, but the strip was jam-packed. Apparently the attraction was an air show, and all the hustle and bustle kept things lively, but it also made for long lines at the restaurants and a rush on show tickets. Still, there was plenty of entertainment to be had for free. Among other things, Caesar's Palace has mythological Greek statues that periodically come to life and do all manner of exciting things, like calling out the thunder and directing lightning bolts at each other.

I also caught the Pussycat Dolls dancers in their neon-lit cages. Not the real Dolls. These dancers reminded me of the Go Go girls of the Seventies, but they were beautiful and sensual, undulating to rock music in the center of an oblong pit and surrounded by Twenty-One tables. The dealers were also dressed up like Dolls, and as you can imagine, there was quite a line-up to play cards.

And—drum roll please!—I won a jackpot on a slot machine—and immediately stopped playing. How’s that for self-control? Actually, for me it was a snap. I’m not much of a gambler, probably because I really hate to lose money. So, when I win anything resembling a jackpot (and this was a small one), I take the money and run. It was tremendously exciting, though, to hear those bells and whistles going off. I can see how people get addicted.

By Saturday night I was having so much fun I was even heard to say that I must have been wrong about Vegas, that it was the perfect place to celebrate, no matter what the occasion. Maybe I shouldn’t have tempted Fate that way. Sunday morning, the line to the restaurant was around the block and, no surprise, the breakfast was cold when it got to us. I still gobbled every bite. Those casino complexes are huge and require massive amounts of walking. It’s easy to build an appetite.

I had a late afternoon flight back and hadn’t packed, but before I could go back to the room, I had to do some shopping. The hotel had given me a gift card as part of their package, but it could be used only in their shops. Fortunately, they had a huge mall. Unfortunately, I had no time! However, I didn’t let that stop me. I knew very well if I didn’t use the gift card that day, I probably never would. Who knew when I’d be getting back to Vegas again? So … ready, set, shop!

I spent every cent on the card and then some, which is why they give them out, I’m sure. Now, I had two problems. No time and extra stuff to take home. I got myself packed in record time. Fifteen minutes! It’s so much easier going home when you don’t care about wrinkled clothing. But I didn’t allow for the taxi line, the ticket lines at the airport and the security lines. Yee Gods, I nearly had a heart attack, thinking I’d miss my flight. I raced around like a mad woman, negotiating a rolling carry-on and a huge bag into which I’d jammed everything including my purse. I made it to the gate in the nick of time, only to find that the flight had been delayed for two hours, at least. That was estimated departure!

I immediately envisioned the worst. Was this to be another Long Night of the Bates Motel? Two nightmares in two trips? I made a vow to myself that I would sleep on the airport floor before I’d go back there. But the terminal was wall to wall stranded passengers. There wasn’t even sitting-on-the-floor room. Flights had been backed up and delayed all day because of runway construction. It didn’t look good.

Long story short, I had at least a two-hour wait and ended up finding floor space too far from the gate to hear the announcement of a gate change. Possibly because I had a full-fare ticket, they made an extra effort to find me before the plane took off or I really would have been stranded. But what a flight it was!! My ears are still ringing from the man next to me. He had a voice that could have cracked glass and was shouting to his co-workers two rows back. Of course, they were shouting back. But our screams drowned them out when the plane landed. It hit hard and bounced like it had pogo sticks for wheels. Wow. My eyeballs are still clickety-clicking. Our Maggie should give that pilot some lessons.

So, Monday was spent recovering and feeling very grateful to be home, sweet home! But I’ve decided to think positively about my two trips to Vegas. They must really like me there. They don’t seem to want me to leave.

What’s your favorite weekend getaway, and if you’ve figured out the secret to surviving Las Vegas, spill, please! I’m now officially afraid to go back.

Suz

CHEAP FUN (Anne Stuart)

So in less than a week the world has suddenly become a vastly better place. Even people of differing politcal viewpoints pretty much agree on that.
But ... our economy is still in the crapper and that's not going to change quickly. We're in a mess and we're all going to have to be doing our part. I see it kind of like WW II, when everyone had to sacrifice to get things right. Fortunately we don't have to lose any more young men and women than we're already losing over in the middle east, and maybe even that will stop soon.

But you know, a girl's gotta have fun. So I'm going to do a series on cheap ways to have fun, enjoy Christmas , cheap presents, even cheap ways to get over the post-Christmas blues.

First off, since it really isn't Christmas season yet though it's moving that way, we'll do TEN CHEAP WAYS TO HAVE FUN (on your own or with others).

1. Most museums have one day a week when they're free to the public. Find one you like and head out. This time is for you. Wander through the exhibits, sit and take them in. If you've got an extra dollar or two there'll probably be a place for donations. Museums are going to be going through a hard time too. Funding will be cut, donations will be down. The $12 entry fee might be too much to handle, but a buck or two won't hurt.

2. Go through your TBR (To Be Read) pile and choose the juiciest, most delectable one, even if you've told yourself you have to go in order. Or even better, go back and find one of your most favorite books and reread it. A YA is always fun -- find a treasure from your teenage years. Or the best Laura Kinsale or Laura London golden oldie. Grab a cup of herb tea, snuggle under a quilt and enjoy.

3. Likewise, do the same with those videos you have. Remember a movie you saw in the theater, fell in love with, immediately bought the DVD when it came out and yet never watched it? Like Phantom of the Opera, or Enchanted. Or find something in your DVD collection that hasn't been in constant rotation on tv, or only been on tv with commercials. Spend the afternoon falling in love again.

4. Shop but don't buy. All those lovely catalogues that appeal to our inner Barbie? Don't look at them and drool. Give yourself a mythical budget. Say $1000 for a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Then figure out how you'd spend it. Books? Go to Amazon.com and virtually spend whatever you're budgeting. (The cool thing is that what you want most you could put on a wish list and maybe buy one at a time when you can afford it).

5. Bake something wonderful. You don't have to be a great cook. Sugar and flour are expensive (I was appalled when I bought flour recently -- the price had doubled) but you still gotta have them. Or brownies -- you can find brownie mix on sale for close to 99 cents and they're almost foolproof to make. And they go really well with books and movies.

6. If you've got satellite tv and no tivo-like recording device, call your provider and ask what it would cost to upgrade. Same for Hi-def. When I called about the digital recording thingy it turned out I could get it for just about no price. Another friend with the competing service also got a nice upgrade because she was having issues with her service. So give them a call and see what it would cot you to go DVR (digital video recording) or Hi-def, and you may be happily surprised. Don't know if cable does the same thing (I live in the boonies) but they might.

7. Go for a walk. Seems kind of silly, but some times the most obvious ideas are overlooked. Walking makes you feel good, it doesn't cost anything.

8. Got an old sewing machine? Maybe your mother's, maybe you used to sew. Drag it out. There's a world of fun to be had. You know that dress you loved but is now too short for you? Cut off another ten inches, hem it and now you've got a new top. Decorate your jeans -- use rows of those fancy stitches around the cuffs and you don't even need to open the seam on them. It can open a whole new world.

9. Go shopping in your house. Come on, admit it. You've shopped too much. You have clothes with tags still on them, you have kitchen gadgets like a waffle iron or an immersion blender or a Foreman grill that you've never used. Go find them. The Foreman grill is amazing for grilled cheese sandwiches. Immersion blenders are great for soup, and soup and bread and salad dinners are cheap and delicious. (So is having pancakes or waffles for dinner). I bet you can find a craft project that you thought would be cool and then never did it. Or a half finished embroidered pillow. Maybe you bought a boutique coffee maker, thinking you'd break your Starbucks habit, and then never figured out how to use it. Now is the time.

10. Hug your family. Come on, you know you love them. They're annoying as hell, your teenagers are brats, your sister drives you crazy, you're husband's a pain. Hug them anyway. The best thing we have, in hard times, in lean times, is family. Go ahead and hug them. Chances are, they'll hug you back, and that'll feel better than the other nine ideas put together.

See? We're all far richer than we thought, with tons of new and interesting things to do or have. It's going to be all right, I promise. We just have to be careful for a little while, but it doesn't mean we can't still have fun.

Give us some more ideas. What else can we do to have fun without spending money?

Sunday Evening

I love lazy days, and lazy nights are even better. Haven't had one in awhile. I had a lazy couple of hours Saturday morning, but that's as close as I've come.

But you know how good a lazy day is every now and then, right? It's almost a necessity, I think, to good mental health. A day when you don't have a darn thing to do besides exactly what you feel like doing?

My favorite lazy days are the ones spent when it's too chilly to go outside, and you just hang around the house. You have to snuggle up to make it perfect. You can snuggle up in your favorite blanket, or in a plush robe and fluffy slippers, or in fleece sweats and big cushy socks. You can snuggle up with your favorite dog, cat, teddy bear, or preferably, your favorite person. But the snuggling is essential.

You get to have hot cocoa. With marshmallows.

You get to watch whatever you want on TV. A football game, an old favorite movie, a new one that's not too deep (you don't want to work your brain too hard on a lazy day, after all.)

You can munch on junk food on a lazy day and it doesn't count. Soup or chili are especially good on days like these.

I've had a busy weekend. But as it rolls to a close, I'm having a few lazy hours this evening. I just decided that was my mood tonight, so there it is.

I'm in the big soft recliner, wearing an oversized hockey jersey and a pair of fleece jammy bottoms and snuggly socks. I'm sipping green tea and watching the Patriots and the Colts in a game that's going to be a nail biter if the first quarter is anything to go by. (All tied up, 7-7 at the moment.) It's cold outside, so I cranked the furnace up a notch, and I have a nice woven blanket from Nogales around my shoulders. I'm skipping the junk food, but I might brew up some cocoa as the night wears on. It's almost perfect. Not quite, but almost. My favorite person is missing from the recipe. But aside from that, it's good here.

So tell me what you like to do on a lazy, cold, autumn day?

Bond . . . James Bond (Patricia Potter)

It’s James Bond time.

I’ve not been to a movie in three or four years. Just don’t have the time and, to be perfectly honest, none have really interested me enough to interrupt my writing schedule, my nightly visits to Mom or replace a good book. I think the last one was “Master and Commander” with Russell Crowe. Oops, maybe it was five or six years. Seven?

Now James Bond might just lure me from my cave.

I’ve been a James Bond fan since 1963 when I ran my car off a cliff and ended up in hospitals on and off for two years. Mangled my leg. It had to be reset twice. Bone grafts. Muscle transplants. Other stuff. Anchored to a bed by a waist-high cast, I read a lot. A friend introduced me to James Bond, and I read through all the Bond books up to that time. I devoured his delicious adventures. He was the hero of my heart.

When I graduated to crutches, then a cane and finally my own two legs, I went to all the Bond films. I can’t really say which James Bond I liked the most. They each had certain qualities that made them interesting. Sean Connery had that hard, dangerous edge. Roger Moore had a mischievous twinkle in his eye as if it was all a grand joke, Timothy Dalton seemed more intense and elegant. Geroge Lazenby didn't make much of an impression which is probably why he didn't stay long. Pierce Brosnan was the ultimate debonaire adventurer.

I must admit I missed Casino Royal which was the first time Daniel Craig first played Bond (I must have been deep in deadline). But now I’m anxiously awaiting “Quantum of Solace” and taking the measure of the newest James Bond. I love what few scenes I’ve seen. He seems rougher. Perhaps a little more real spy-like.

In anticipation of said arrival, I thought I would share some Bond trivia.

-- James Bond would be, unfortunately, eighty-eight today. The first Bond book was written in 1952. It put his birth date around 1920. He does age rather gracefully.

-- “Quantum of Solace” will be the 22nd Bond film. The first Bond film was released in 1962. The Bond films must be the most long lasting and successful of all series. They still pack in the audiences.

-- He was originally portrayed as an SIS agent residing in London. From 1995 onwards, SIS would be officially acknowledged as MI6.

-- James Bond's code number was 007 except for one film, You Only Live Twice, when he temporarily became 7777. I don’t think the change was ever explained.

--James Bond was first portrayed by Barry Nelson in a 1954 American television film based on the novel Casino Royale, and next by Bob Holness in a 1956 South African radio series. David Niven played him in Casino Royale, a 1967 satire, which was lightly based on the Bond novel of the same name.

--James Bond did not like killing despite his “OO” designation. He avoided it whenever possible and in several books doesn’t kill anyone at all.

-- He’s famous for ordering vodka martinis “shaken, not stirred.” In the novel “Moonraker,” he also drinks shots of vodka straight, champagne and bourbon. In that book alone, he consumed 317 drinks of which 101 are whisky, 35 sakes, 30 glasses of champagne and a mere 19 vodka martinis. This is an average of one drink every seven pages. It’s a wonder he outsmarted all those creative attempts to kill him.

– In the novels, his physical description states he has a slim build, a three-inch vertical scar on his right cheek, blue-grey eyes, a “cruel” mouth; short, black hair, a comma of which falls on his forehead. He is described as six feet tall with a weight of 167.

Now which is your favorite James Bond? And do you plan to see the next James Bond flick?

Never Too Much Love (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Hi everyone. I'd like to do something a little different here today if we could.

Lynn's home, fighting her way through her second chemo treatment, and worrying about not being here.

There's so little we can do, but Storybroads is a source of strength for her, it's something that she looks to as she struggles to get to the 'other' side. She's given us all a lot of hours of e