StoryBroads...It's All Good

I'm Back In the Saddle Again

2010-03-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

Hi, all. . .

I’m back in the saddle again, Well, kinda.

At least I’m moving. Slowly.

Nothing major, but what I thought was shingles pain turned out to be a pinched nerve and, according to my doctor who puts things in simple terms, I’d made it very angry. Be nice to it, he pleaded.

It’s going to get a jolt of happy juice in two weeks. That should make it very happy, the same doctor said. In the meantime I should be content to ease it’s anger by staying off my feet.

That’s like asking a whirling dervish to top whirling. I’m not good at staying still. But I don’t like angry nerves, either, so I’ve been trying to compromise with it until it gets it’s happy juice.

The happy juice comes apparently in two shots to the nerve, two because they are not sure which nerve is giving me problems. A block. The doctor says it might last two weeks or six months. A nice decisive statement. I think they put you to sleep while they do this. I know this not because they tell you, but because the instructions say not to eat or drink anything for eight hours before I arrive. If anyone out there knows about this, please give me the details.

In the meantime I’m trying not to make it angry again. That means riding the little scooter at Costco. This is not altogether a bad thing. I’m like the mad race car driver which will be no surprise to Lynn. We both terrorized other tourists at Jamestown last year when we opted for the scooters because of Lynn’s recovery.

My dogs are happy. I’m home more. My Mom not so much. Her room is at the end of two very, very long halls, and I’m fine going, not so fine leaving. The nerve is wagging its finger at me, and that’s not good.

The good news is I finished revisions on my new book, "The Lawman." It should be out in October under Harlequin’s Blaze. Heaven only knows what’s in it since some of it was finished under the influence of happy pills, but I’m hoping for the best.

That also means I get to start a new one. That’s always exciting. I’m vacillating between a western and romantic suspense. I love doing both.

Other things happened last week between an outraged nerve and deadline. One of my very favorite people in the world – my nephew-in-law – is having serious medical problems and that clouds my heart. So I ask you all to keep him in your prayers.

But I’m back now and I missed you – even for a week. So a belated Happy St Pat’s Day to you all, and a beautiful spring (like Maggie’s northern clime, my Tennessee land is also sprouting fresh, new buds). Join in, all of you, and let us know how YOUR spring is progressing.

What's in a Name? (Lynn Kerstan)

2010-03-19T00:30:00.000-07:00

“And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field....”

So it began. Well, I’m presuming he was providing species names like dogs and cats and canaries, not dubbing individual beasties Fido or Fluffy or Tweetie Pie. Practically speaking, Adam couldn’t name every form of non-plant life, of which there are many millions, but the biblical passage does signify that the human need to give names is hard-wired in us.

Most significant, I expect, is the naming of children. Parents consult books for the meanings of names, consider family names, think about people they admire and wish to honor, even wonder if great-uncle Ezra would be kind in his will to a toddler namesake. And of course, there are the “what were they thinking?” names. I used to enjoy chef Jamie Oliver’s TV shows, but what persuaded Jamie and Jools to name their daughters Daisy Boo, Poppy Honey, and Petal Blossom Rainbow? Do they have any clue how the mean kids in school will torment their poor daughters? Another child is due in the autumn, and we can only shudder at what J&J have in store for him or her.

I didn’t know my own real name until 7th grade. Thought it was Len. Yawn. Turned out I was christened Helen, after my mom, but the parents chose to call me by the second half. Coulda been worse. I might have been Hel. I changed to Lynn a couple years later when I met a baseball player named Len and decided to feminize the spelling.

Me and my mom, on the day I got my next name.
In the convent, I was expected to adopt a “name in religion” and asked to submit three names for consideration. My first choice (which I got) was Sister Michael Damien, after the warrior archangel and the missionary priest from Belgium, Father Damien, who ministered to the lepers on Molokai until he contracted the disease and died.

Always a fan of heroic guys (or angels) I admired his courage and devotion (of which I have practically none). Long after leaving the convent, I made a pilgrimage of sorts to Kaluapapa and what remains of the leper colony to which Damien devoted himself.

Here’s me at his grave, in which he is (for the most part) no longer buried. His remains were toted back to Belgium in the 30's, although his right hand was re-interred here in the 90's.

I hadn’t realized that getting to his grave required a 2 ½ -hour mule ride down a precipitous cliff, during which I decided to buy a cottage in the colony rather than endure the ride back up. Persuaded the upward direction was not nearly so scary, I reluctantly changed my mind, only to discover (no way to turn around) the persuader had lied. Nothing is sacred! Well, except Father Damien, who was canonized Saint Damien in October 2009.

Naming pets is less controversial or intensive. Okay, not for me. My first cat, acquired when I was in second grade, was Smoky. Later, my sister and I refined his name to Smoky Bowtie Beltbuckle Puddycat Eeknay, Esq. Otherwise gray, he had white spots where a bowtie and beltbuckle would be. He was a puddycat. And we were Yankee fans. Clearly, we usually have reasons for the names we give, but they are not always reasonable. Over the years,the names of my Siamese cats were drawn from an admired professor-mentor, Giles, and from literature: Phaedra, Cassandra, Malvolio, and Dante. Terribly pretentious.

I’d speak of Present Company, but the current pet informs me that he wishes to blog, at a future time, about his name and why it suits him. I will be interested to read his analysis. He’s pretty fanciful for a housecat.

I also want to talk about authors and the naming of our characters, but that will also have to wait. This is a concert weekend with the San Diego Master Chorale, so I’m tied up with rehearsals and other associated tasks, like laundering the formal attire. Black pantyhose are soaking in Woolite as I type!

I’ve named them “The Iron Maiden.”

Waiting for Touchdown (Tara Taylor Quinn)

2010-03-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

I was mugged in Italy once. It was my first trip overseas. No male escort to keep me safe. And I survived, not only with body intact, but possessions untouched as well - other than the back seat of my rental car which had been frighteningly occupied by a large male for a very brief span. The experience changed my life. I came through. Was able to do what was necessary on the spur of the moment to take care of myself, regardless of the danger, in spite of the fact that I'm only 5' 2" and weigh...not enough. I didn't fall apart until hours later when I was safely ensconced on the balcony of a quiet, luxurious resort, enjoying the waves of the Mediterranean sea that were gently meeting the rocks three stories below me, and becoming best friends with the bottle of exquisite and rare Italian wine I'd been given to calm my nerves. The wine was locally made and I've never been able to find a bottle of it since.

But I haven't forgotten it. More, I haven't forgotten the inner strength I discovered on that trip. A strength that until that day, I hadn't even known I possessed. I've tapped into the strength many times since then. Sometimes in big ways that I notice, and other times without even realizing that I'm doing so. Probably the most memorable time - maybe given to me as a bit of a reminder so that I didn't lose sight of the abilities that are there to serve me - was this past summer when my little canine brother took a header into a freezing cold and rapidly moving stream after midnight on a very dark and moonless night in the middle of nowhere. I didn't have time to think then, either, or he'd have been lost to us. I went in after him - in spite of the fact that you couldn't pay me to get into that water on a hot summer day without waders. I got us to my mother on the bank, who pulled us out of the water. I didn't fall apart until afterward then, either.

I've been thinking of these times often over the past week as I sit and pretend that I'm carefree and happy and unworried to have my mother in Israel. I'm still waiting to grow up enough to be as strong as my mother is. (That's her up there in the picture with Tim - having lunch on a saddle.) Last year she decided she had to have a trip to the holy land. She planned for a year. And now she's in Israel. She left last week, in spite of the worries of her daughter and son-in-law, her son, her granddaughter - even her niece who had to call her the night before she left to wish her safe travels. Mom had life to experience. And off she went.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that she went. I fully support her decision. She's alive and living and I wholeheartedly want her that way. I want her to experience life to the fullest extent her spirit takes her. I'm just...uneasy.

I expressed the sentiment last week to my aunt who just returned from Israel not long ago. She told me not to worry as our vice president was in Israel as well so the security, which is good, is even better now. I feel relieved for all of the five minutes it takes me to google the vice presidential trip to Israel on the Internet. I was just checking to make certain that my mother was in the right towns - right there where his security was waiting to come to the aid of all Americans. Instead, I find out that something's gone wrong. Political figures have reverted to high school type behaviors. Our vice president is trading barbs with Israeli higher ups. American/Israeli relations are tense.

I've been following the news, and my mother's itinerary, daily. More than daily. She's a good mom. Even though she's having the time of her life, and life-changing experiences, she's still taken the time to email me. Regularly. And this morning, very early this morning her flight home took off from Tel Aviv.

And so today, in the midst of trying to finish book three of four, I am pouring all of my energy into keeping that plane in the air. Until it reaches US airspace. Then, I plan to help it gently land on US soil - where, as she so succinctly pointed out to me before she left - we've lost two family members and a best friend to car accidents.

So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we expend so much energy and emotion on things that we cannot control? On things that our minds tell us are not worth worrying about. Why do we put negative energy out there when all we want to send out is positive?

I'm thinking that's the real challenge before me. Not just to be strong enough to do something little like fight off a mugger, but to be strong enough to overcome the worries that life brings to me and put positive energy in their stead.

Cats are funny like that (Suzanne Forster)

2010-03-16T08:05:00.000-07:00

So, here’s today’s question about strange cat behavior: Why must they lay on everything? Newspapers. Computer keyboards. Clothing. Mandy is obsessed with laying on anything and everything except her bed! Fortunately, she loves her cat tree and often sleeps there, snoozing in the highest tier, but she will abandon it in a heartbeat to plop down on a sock I might have dropped on the floor.

Paper products are also a big favorite of hers. She takes possession of books, magazines, newspapers, manuscript pages, even the monthly bills. Our electric bill went unpaid one month because Mandy was sleeping on it while I was diligently writing checks. When she rolled over, the bill dropped to the floor and ended up under a cabinet, out of sight. We’re lucky we didn’t get our lights turned off.

I suppose it could be a scent thing. I’ve heard cats are attracted to anything that bear their owner’s scent, but Mandy also loves to crawl into a laundry basket and sleep on freshly washed clothes. That could also be because of the warmth. When I work on the bed with the laptop, Mandy will sleep on the power source for my computer because it generates so much heat. It’s just 5X3X2 inches, small enough that she covers it completely with her body, but you can see the lump it makes in her stretched-out form.

Surely, those sharp edges are uncomfortable. I’ve even tried to move her, but she won’t go. Maybe it’s all the fur padding.

She’s also quite the sunbather. Even in the summer when the rest of us are blotting our foreheads and fanning ourselves from the heat, she’ll bask contentedly in the sun from the window.

For awhile I thought she was laying on things to get my attention, especially when she would wander over and flop on my keyboard while I was diligently working, covering my hands as I typed. She definitely got my attention with that move. But it’s not just about attention because she does it when I’m not around.

The other day I was sorting through things to donate to charity and I left a tall stack of research books on my bed. When I came back later, I found her draped over the books, trying to lay on them. It was hilarious. Her front feet were dangling over the side. They couldn’t touch down because the stack was too high. It looked like she’d tried to jump over and got stuck, but I knew what she was up to.

I read a great story on a pet web site about a cat who’d taken ownership of a comfy lounge chair in the great room. She wouldn’t share it with anyone but the family’s little dog. One day a neighbor who weighed nearly 400 pounds dropped by and while the humans were chatting, he decided to sit down. Apparently he either didn’t see the furry things in the chair or mistook them for pillows!

The pet owner only had time to save one animal. He grabbed the dog, and yes, the neighbor sat on the cat. Luckily, he was able to get up quickly, but the cat was extremely upset and spent the rest of the visit perched on an end table, glaring at the neighbor. The cat wasn’t too happy with his owner, either, and could not be coaxed, even with offerings of yummy tidbits to sleep in that chair again, which proves that cats may be strange, but they’re not crazy. In a house where humans can’t be bothered not to sit on them, it only makes sense to stay out of the chairs.

Here’s my theory: Cats have their own brand of entitlement psychology and it’s called ownership of everything in their domain, including the human. If it exists in their realm, they own it, and they prove it by laying on it, sitting on it, rubbing up against it or licking it. You mess with their stuff at your own peril—and that includes you, should you decide to get up whilst they’re laying on your lap or any other part of your body. They won’t hurt you, but they’ll sure give you a look and freeze you out for awhile and they may go sulk in the bed springs and refuse to come out for dinner.

It may take us humans awhile, but eventually most of us get the message that we don’t own our cats, they own us and they’re way more stubborn than we are—-and much smarter, obviously—-so the sooner we get used to it the better. Allan and I surrendered a long time ago. How about the rest of you who are owned by furry, four-legged creatures, cat or dogs? Anyone out there still fighting the battle for human autonomy?

Good luck!
Suz

Desert Song (Lynn Kerstan)

2010-03-13T00:40:00.000-08:00

Aeons ago (I was a high school sophomore), playing the hero (all-girls school) in an operetta, I sang “My desert is calling....”
In reality, deserts rarely call me. That’s because they are generally hot. But yesterday, I set out for what I thought would be a 2-hour drive to the largest state park in California: Anza Borrego. I thought that because the website said it was a 2-hour drive from the west, and that’s where I was coming from. When I exited the freeway ninety miles later and headed north into the park, I figured I would arrive on time to meet a visiting friend and a possible new friend at 10am, as arranged.

For a half hour, I was the only one traveling on the two-lane county road. No cars, no birds, not even any road kill. Just me and the desert. I was playing a CD, Mozart’s Great Mass in C. The sky was blue, the temperature around 70, the road good. Where else could I see a large grove of orange trees surrounded by miles of desert with a snow-capped mountain in the distance? Or be stopped at a Border Patrol checkpoint manned by three very hunky young men. I wondered how I could get them to arrest me.

An hour later, my love affair with the landscape had cooled. It was beautiful, but all of a sameness. A couple of RVs coming from where I was going broke the monotony, and I passed a few small marker signs that intrigued me: Canyon Sin Nombre (Canyon without a Name) and The Well of Eight Echoes. A couple of bicyclists pedaled relentlessly in the middle of nowhere. I drove and drove and drove.

When I finally arrived at the park’s Visitor Center, I was late by nearly two hours. But my tribe of two had wisely entertained themselves meantime, so we set out in fine fettle to enjoy us some desert delights.
In the spring (which lasts maybe three weeks), that means wildflowers.

This is an ocotillo (like the one in the upper left-hand picture), just beginning to bloom.

And of course, there is the fearsome desert wildlife.

Being intrepid adventurers, we stalked these clever critters to their favorite hangout: a restaurant.

Yup. After a gruelling drive of maybe ten minutes and an exhausting trek several yards from our vehicle to photograph wildflowers, it was time for lunch! To the left is long-time treasured buddy Sharon Knolls (aka Nurse Ratchitt), not long retired from her career as an RN in the San Francisco area. In the middle is me, looking unnaturately demure. And to my right is Cammie, Sharon's friend, who lives about thirty miles north of here and is a lot of fun to be with.

Proving that our priorities remain firmly in place, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch (about two hours) before realizing the time to head home was looming. They advised me that the perilous precipitous edges on the over-the-mountains northern route they'd used (presumably a shorter drive) would be fine, because going back, I would be on the inside lane and not the edgy one.

But before leaving, we went to see the horses I'd spotted driving into Borrego Springs, the quirky spread-out desert town near the heart of the state park. These are the ones I first saw, and I assumed they were a mother and foal.

Until I saw this guy in an adjacent field. And he never moved. Neither did the eight or ten horses nearby, grazing or quarreling or downright trying to to kill one another. They are sculptures created from scrap metals, wires, and rebar by Ricardo Breceda, who had been mostly producing dinosaurs in another part of California when he was commissioned to populate a wealthy man's extensive properties in Borrego Springs with animals that had roamed Anza Borrego in the distant past. Hence the mastodon, saber-toothed tigers, fanciful dinos, tortoises, and primeval birds. Later, the millionaire extended the metallic zoo to include more contemporary denizens of the desert such as camels, llamas, donkeys, and horses. Dozens of creature now grace the landscape, with more to follow.

Breceda, an immigrant from Mexico, bussed tables and washed dishes before getting into construction. After a literally back-breaking fall from a roof, he tinkered his way into sculpting and opened his own business. His work will delight visitors to Anza for year and years to come.

After reluctant farewells to Sharon and Cammie, I took their advice about the "safe" return trip and found myself driving the edgy side for mile after terrifying mile. I know they wouldn't deliberately mislead me, but...What Were They Thinking?!

As a result of driving about five miles an hour for a long, long time, only to get caught in rush-hour traffic when I reached civilization, I arrived home very late and utterly knackered.
Seven or eight hours of driving to enjoy half an hour of sightseeing and a long lunch! Would I do that again? No. Would I sic the fighting horses on Sharon and Cammie for getting confused about inside lane/edge lane? No.

Am I glad I went? You betcha!

The Cat Patsy (Lymond de Sevigny)

2010-03-12T00:16:00.000-08:00

So here I am again, making apologies for the Can-Opener. Mind you, I should have been suspicious when she filled my food-bowl full before I was even awake this morning and then disappeared for eons. She was going to write about where she went and what she did, or so she told me, but by the time she slumped in again, she was worn down and there wasn't time.

I had to believe her. She looked like something the cat dragged in. That's a metaphor. I can't drag anything in because I never go out, unlike this rogue cat (probably flea-bitten) who came to call the other day.

As it happens, someone named Pat Potter says all sorts of stuff is happening at once in her own life and she couldn't write her own blog either. Peoples are soooo complicated. I might care, if I knew what a blog was. Or, Nah. But the CO says she'll cover for Pat tomorrow, the same way I'm covering for her today, and Pat will be back when things settle.

SPRING and TRANSFORMATION! (Maggie)

2010-03-11T05:12:00.000-08:00

Abara cadabara! It's Spring! Yeah, just like that. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised. It happens this way every year. Yet, every single time I'm just so bubblingly, deliciously delighted I can barely sit still. And that's literally. I've been outside, walking, running, I've been inside on my elliptical, and today I'm planning some upper body and ab work. Because it's Spring! And everything in me is eager and giddy and restless and ready for rebirth. I think it's because everything in the earth is doing likewise, at least where I live here in the northeast. The snows are melting, the rivers are flowing higher and faster, the sun is shining, and sometimes the rain is falling to push things along at a faster clip. And all those gorgeous little beings in the ground are feeling it. They're quickening. They're squirming. They're coming alive, slowly, but I'll bet the crocuses and snowdrops and dandelions and blades of grass are as eager and restless as I am. The trees don't have to be as patient. Already there's a red haze taking over the forested hillsides--it's the tiny nut-red buds that will eventually bust open and unfurl and become lush green leaves. This is the first week I've felt 50 degrees since last year, and just now the weatherman said we could hit sixty today!

I'm turning cartwheels!!!!

And I'm busting forth with the spring, too. I spent the final two weeks of winter pretty sick, and my couch potato-ness, which had been getting a little bigger than I liked (causing my ass to do likewise) really took over. Two weeks, on my back, blowing my nose and taking Nyquil. Chicken soup and tea and stillness. UGH! No wonder the cabin fever was growing by leaps and bounds right along with the virus, whatever it was.

No more, though. The healing came, as I knew it would, and it seems like the Spring came right along with it. I'm sure there's a co-relationship there, but I don't know what caused what. At any rate, I'm better. Better than I've been all winter, or that's my perception anyway.

As always happens in the Spring, I'm fired up about fitness, and a whole group of woman have joined me on a yahoogroup I call Maggie's Health and Fitness. We're sharing tips and tricks, reporting our daily progress to one another. Half of us have decided not to step on the scales until April 1, to see our results all at once. Others are still weighing in on their regular schedules, and we're going to compare notes in April. There's a lot of encouragement, and every now and then, challenges and prizes. If you'd like to join us (free, no catches,) send a blank email to maggies-health-and-fitness-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

But this isn't a commercial for my fitness group. It's about Spring. And my feeling that the more in touch and in tune with Mother Nature we are, the more we move and change with Her. If there are any big changes you've been wanting to make in your life, the easiest time you will ever have to make them, is during the changing of the seasons. Transformation is all around you, and it's far easier to get into its vibe and just go with the flow of it all. Everything is changing now.

The earth is waking from a long slumber. Bears are emerging from their hybernation. Buds are budding. Birds are changing homes. Animals are shedding their old coats. We are emerging too, from the long, silent winter, when rest and contemplation are our natural tendencies. And we too are changing. We can play on that, pump it up, use it to our own benefit. Spring is a time to reclaim our youthful exuberance, because Spring is a child itself. Everything is young and new. We can gain more energy, decide to totally change our wardrobe, change our bodies, change our hair, change our attitudes, and change our habits. As the snow melts away, let everything you no longer want to be a part of who you are, just melt away with it. As the sun beams down, imagine it heating and warming the seedlings deep inside you. The ones you've been thinking about all winter long. "I wish I were more (fill in the blank.)" Those are the seeds. You planted them just by wishing them, and now is the time when they can begin to stir. Spring is breathing life into them. They're real.

More than ever, I'm feeling excited and eager and just itchy with anticipation about what this year is going to bring. I have been since January 1, but now, oh, now, it's more powerful than ever. Spring is here. Nothing but goodness and beauty can possibly come with it.

Okay, so what are my plans for Spring? First, I'm going to get my body back to precisely where I want it. I know how, it's not hard, I've done it before. That's in progress already. I'm not all that far from it anyway, not bad at all, really. Spent the day at Aria on the Avenue yesterday, and was getting checked out by the whole crew at the muffler shop where we stopped on the way home. I'm good. I like me. This is just some tweaking.

I'm going to write some fabulous stories this spring. Two are already in progress, a novel and a novella and they'll both be done by summer.

I'm going to spend a lot of time kayaking, and hiking, and anything else that seems fun to me.

I'm going to find easy, fun ways to promote the summer releases without driving myself crazy over it. And they'll be effective.

I'm going to stop wearing jeans and t-shirts all the time and start dressing more like--oh, I don't know. A fairy or a woodsprite or Stevie Nicks.

Oh, there's so much more. Lawn projects. A coy pond, maybe. A camper to look for--oh, I want a big monster bus like Jerry and Esther Hicks have, so that we can hit the road with the dogs, and even add a custom built lizard habitat, so Forest can come with us. And lots and lots other fun, fun things.

I'm not going to worry about any of it. I'm just going to let it flow, and all will be well.

What are your plans for this glorious Spring?

Maggie

Back In Time (Tara Taylor Quinn)

2010-03-10T05:11:00.000-08:00

I've spent a lot of time back in time lately. The last couple of weekends Tim and I have taken trips along the Ohio River, stopping in small towns that used to be thriving metropolis' but are now populated by a few hearty citizens that must drive long distances to and from work because there are miles and miles between the small towns and there is no industry or business in the towns to support its citizens. I figure some of the them are retired. Maybe some are on public assistance. Or maybe they're all writers and can work from anywhere. The towns do have post offices.

And they are steeped in history. Every single one of these towns have antique shops. No grocery stores. But there will always be an antique shop. And we stopped at every one of them. We look, and where appropriate, touch. We talk about the lives, the people, the times when the things were new. We talk about craftsmanship. And lifestyles. And we wonder if maybe back then they had things a little more in control than we do now.

It used to be that the tobacco industry supported some of the towns along the Ohio River. Both on the Kentucky side and on the Ohio side. We've traversed both sides. Where once the big barns bore fresh paint and supported enormous amounts of drying tobacco, the edifices are now slats of rotted grey wood in various stages of ruin. A few of the barns are still standing intact, but not many. Most have slats missing, many of them are crumbling in parts, fallen down, like a person trying to stand upright with an elbow on the ground. And the grand farm houses are also in disrepair. More of them are abandoned than not. The ones that are not are in need of coats of paint - in the best case scenarios.

The other big business along the Ohio River was shipping. Shipping goods. Literally. With ships. Or rather, steam boats. The Ohio River was once a metro way that supported whole towns in style. From boat building (the steam boats had to be made and they were built right there along the river) to loading, unloading and distribution, the Ohio River was busy twenty-four seven. From farm goods to pianos, the area produced and shipped enough goods to support parts of two states. As we drove along, as we stopped and looked at the grand old homes, and their contents, I kept imagining the women, in their full, deep colored skirts, waiting for their own ships to come in. Waiting for whatever man made her heart flutter. And then, hopefully, sing. I thought about the parties. The anticipation. The babies. The hopes and dreams. I wondered how any of them would feel if they could see the towns now. I wondered how shocked they'd be to see what was once thriving be struggling so hard just to remain in existence. And I wondered if those towns will slowly just die out, as their people have.

I've been living in the past here at home, too, in a different way. I've been judging books for the RITA contest. (The Emmy's of the romance writing industry.) This year I was sent several historical novels. I don't generally read the genre, and I've seen that I'm missing out on some truly rich stories. I'd love to tell you my favorite book of the year. But judging has to be anonymous so I cannot. I'd never heard of the author. I hope her book wins. She told a story of the old west. Of a woman of privilege plotting her adventure in the west before she settles down and marries the man her father has chosen for her. Nothing particularly new or compelling about that. But after you've read the first couple of paragraphs, you're there, in 1800's, thoroughly enjoying the heroine's wiles as she finds a way to get on that train. Feeling the grit on her pristine, tailor made clothes; smiling at her dismay as she learns what the real world feels like, as she sits with commoners; and enjoying her plunk as she doesn't let any of it deter her from her goal. I loved living life with her. I loved the times. They were less frenetic. They had to be. It took a long time to get anywhere. To communicate between cities took days. There was a lot more time for deep thoughts to take root, for the things that really mattered to settle upon you.

Today, we can outrun just about anything. Distractions from deep thinking abound. We don't have to stop very often and think about things that matter because there is so much around us, vying for our attention, our time, our thoughts, that we can just go ahead and let them take us on the merry go round until we fall exhausted into bed. And then we get up the next morning and jump on the ride again. We get from A to B in minutes, across the world in hours. And we can take our little hand held pieces of technological wonder with us and keep our brains occupied, distracted, busy the entire time. Instead of thinking we can play games. Talk to friends. Surf the net. Instead of sitting with someone for days on a train, actually looking in a person's eyes as we get to know him or her, we converse through little handheld devices. Entire relationships are conducted on the things. Heck we can even take these little things and mail letters while we're driving. So the commute to work doesn't even have to be time to think anymore.

So when do we reflect? When do we slow down and get in touch with the inner beings that are here to thrive and to grow? When do we actually fully experience all of our experiences? When do we learn from what we've done? Or from what others have done?

Sometimes I see us all as a bunch of chickens running around with our heads cut off. And maybe that's the challenge of this generation. To be able to reflect, and grow and experience life to the fullest while running around headless. Or maybe it's to be able to use and enjoy all of our modern day conveniences and devices, to explore all of our opportunities while keeping our heads on.

As I spent time in the past this week, I stumbled on something else and want to leave you with it today. (The link might ask you to open and save and tell you that the file could be corrupt. It isn't. It's I-tunes. If you save, it gives you an option to open and then it plays. In the meantime, I'm trying to get it in a different format to make this easier!) The recording is not good. It's ancient technology that Tim and I managed, this week, to record to a CD. (We wanted it on my mom's ipod for her trip to Israel.) As a disclaimer, this is a church song, recorded in a much simpler time. It's not here as a message of particular beliefs, but as a more broad reminder of what was. And what still is - a need within us to connect to our core selves and to know that our choices mean something more than just a moment in time. It took me back to my roots - not in a religious sense, but in the sense of being aware that life is more - deeper - than a moment, deeper than possessions, or doing. Deeper than just now.

And in a more personal sense, it took me back to my childhood where, many many nights I fell asleep listening to this voice in my home. More often than not, the songs were secular, not religious. But it wasn't about the songs. It was the voice.

This is my past. Back in time. My daddy.

/01%20Abide%20in%20me.mp3

What Every Little Girl Wants (Suzanne Forster)

2010-03-09T06:47:00.000-08:00

A powder pink Hello Kitty Assault Weapon, of course.

I came across this picture on a political forum where all points of view are encouraged in the hope of finding common ground. It’s a great idea and one I wish would be encouraged more widely, including on our national political scene. But unfortunately, in this age of partisan politics, common ground sometimes turns into forty miles of bad road.

According to the rifle’s designer, it’s an actual semi-automatic weapon that was created as a protest against the assault weapons ban that prohibits the sale of military-type weapons to civilians. The rifle was customized from an AR-15 with the goal of alleviating the fears of the designer’s “fellow citizens and gun-banning legislators.”

I didn’t believe it was a real weapon when I saw the picture. It looked exactly like a toy. I thought the picture might be photo-shopped, but the designer provides evidence that it’s a working rifle with a second picture that shows the gun dissembled, with all its working parts. Designing a dangerous semi-automatic that looked like a child’s toy didn’t seem like a good idea to me and I said as much in my comments about the pictures.

I should probably make it clear that I’m not an activist for or against gun ownership. If people want to own guns and use them safely and responsibly, I’m fine with that. But apparently the ban on military-type assault weapons is controversial with some gun enthusiasts—and the most frequent argument I’ve heard for ownership of these guns is self-defense. Some people feel strongly that they need the equivalent of an M-16 in order to protect themselves. I can imagine situations where that might be true, but I decided to do some research to see how likely it was that the average person might require a weapon that can fire up to 800 rounds of ammunition a minute.

According to an article called “The Six Most Feared but Least Likely Causes of Death,” almost everyone fears terrorist attacks and being murdered. Those two fears are in the top five, but how likely are we to get murdered?

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), an estimated 250,000 people were murdered in the world in 2000, out of a population of billions. Compare that to the 6 million people who died of cancer in the same year.

Even more people feared dying in a terrorist attack, but what are the odds of that happening? Well, they’re one in 9.3 million, which is a slightly greater than the risk of dying in an avalanche.

From the same article, here are the “Actual Leading Causes of Death”:

“An unhealthy diet is actually a leading cause of death in the United States.

Biggest fears aside, the Journal of the American Medical Association published a study that uncovered the actual leading causes of death in the United States (in 2000). Overwhelmingly, these causes stem from our own, modifiable behaviors.

Tobacco (435,000 deaths, 18.1 percent of total U.S. deaths)
Poor diet and physical inactivity (400,000 deaths, 16.6 percent)
Alcohol consumption (85,000 deaths, 3.5 percent)
Microbial agents (75,000)
Toxic agents (55,000)
Motor vehicle crashes (43,000)
Incidents involving firearms (29,000)
Sexual behaviors (20,000)
Illicit use of drugs (17,000)”

You can read more here: http://www.sixwise.com/newsletters/0...s_of_death.htm

Looks like we should all start watching what we eat and exercising! We’d live longer and it might even calm our fears.

But getting back to the Hello Kitty rifle, I was actually surprised at the reactions to my comments about the pictures. The gun enthusiasts who responded were highly indignant. I was called ignorant and a gun phobic—-and many of them defended the pictures, even though one poster admitted the gun looked “cute and cuddly.” Some argued that it didn’t look like a toy. Others said lots of toy guns look real.

The former is really a question of perception. It may not look like the toys I grew up with, but my concern was that it could easily be mistaken for a toy because of the pink color, the flowers and the Hello Kitty decal on the stock. The latter argument doesn’t make sense to me. I’m not sure how toy guns that look real are a rationale for real guns that look like toys. Personally, I’m not fond of either. I’d prefer that toys be clearly differentiated from weapons that can injure or kill people.

One gun expert who had children said he has guns that his daughters are allowed to use under supervision. He also said if those guns were ever misused it would be a failure of parenting and education, not an issue of the cosmetics of the gun.

I agree with his points on education and parenting, and I have little doubt that his children know everything they need to about gun safety. But what about the millions of kids whose parents aren't going to take the time to teach them about guns, not because they're negligent but because guns aren't a part of their life? Out of curiosity, I Googled "Hello Kitty AR-15" and found forty-plus pages of images associated with the gun, including pictures of little girls with assault weapons. Alarmed, I checked out the designer’s blog at blog.riflegear.com and was relieved to discover that the rifle was one-of-a-kind and not available for sale.

Okay, that’s the end of my spiel. I don’t usually get into hot button issues, but this one bothered me. Not because one person designed a custom powder pink semi-automatic rifle. I know many gun enthusiasts are as passionate about gun safety as they are about the Second Amendment, so I was surprised to see such passion in favor of a dangerous weapon made to look like a toy, whether that was the intention or not. Hence, the irony in the title of my blog.

Sadly, there wasn’t much common ground to be found on the topic, which is why I decided to blog about it. There must be some way those of us with sincere concerns about gun use and safety, especially where kids are concerned, can talk to those who are avid gun collectors and enthusiasts without anyone becoming indignant and calling each other names. It’s a conversation we really should be having because I’m sure the one thing we all have in common is a desire that the world be a less dangerous place, even if we envision different ways of achieving that.

Suz

Crunch Time (Anne Stuart)

2010-03-08T04:21:00.000-08:00

I have been a very busy girl this week. I somehow got the impression that I had to write 20 pages a day to finish my book by March 15th, but it turns out I have to write 11.66666666 a day, which is much more doable. Especially since my average is about 15.

Midweek I had another crisis, as I realized I was supposed to get copy edits and what they have instead of galleys for two books, plus I have to write a novelette due the end of the month, plus another book starting April 1st.

On top of all that, I was hoping to go on a trip with my darling husband, out to Tahoe to see my niece and SF to see my daughter.

So I printed up a daily schedule, factored in the other things I have to do (like see my mother) and what amount of work I need to do, and suddenly everything fell into place.

It also helped that I've been watching Toby Stephens as Rochester in Jane Eyre, and oh my is he delicious! Perfect hero material.

I figure another nose to the grindstone week, and I'll finish the book in a mad blast on Saturday. I always muscle through to the end, writing fiendish amounts. It just seems to work better that way.

For a while I was bribing myself with sewing, but then I'd write 20 pages and be too tired to sew. I did order a bunch of fabric that I didn't need from eQuilter, but apart from that I've been pretty well-behaved.

Still, when the draft is done I'm really going to need to celebrate. I'll play the 1812 Overture, I'll dance around the kitchen, I'll be happy happy happy. And then I start revisions.

No rest for the wicked.

A Very Happy Birthday (Pat)

2010-03-06T01:00:00.000-08:00

My mom's 100th birthday was a terrific success, thanks to all of you. She received over 100 birthday cards (we're up to 133 now and more are coming). Each day brought a new batch which meant she was constantly reminded of the upcoming birthday. She read every one, and most several times. I wish you all could have seen her amazement that so many people cared. I might note that the nursing home was astounded by the number of cards. The lovely receptionist said I made her job easy. On every piece of mail she just had to mark Room 315. No sorting necessary.
I also brought her a balloon every day for a week. They included two singing balloons. You punch them and they sing. One was an ordinary "Happy Birthday" song, the other a rock and roll Elvis version. There wasn't a soul in the nursing home that didn't know there was a big 100th birthday.
Sixteen people attended her party at the Memphis Jewish Home, including her two children, Three of her four grandchildren, and spouses, six of ten great grandchildren (with spouses) and a yet unborn great, great grandson, the sixth William Potter in six generations. Mom, who had been slipping away more and more this year, was awake and beaming.
She loved every moment, especially putting her hand on her great granddaughter-in-law's (Sarah Potter)stomach to welcome the latest generation.
And finally we have my great niece, Beth, looking through a gift book with mom. Beth (niece #2 as she calls herself) was the official photographer for the event, and I thank her for these pictures.
All in all, it was a wonderful affair, made even more glorious by the participation of writers throughout the country. The best part of being a writer is this very giving community of writers and readers. I love you all.

Me & My Teevee (Lynn Kerstan)

2010-03-05T00:13:00.000-08:00

Although my set is turned on most all the time, I actually watch very little television. It stays on because I’m a news junkie and don’t want to miss interesting stuff that happens, and because music is more distracting to me when I’m working than near-muted talking heads. Silence is reserved for bed-time. But now and again, I stumble across shows that become must-sees.

Only a handful, alas, because reality shows have pretty much taken over programming, and most of those feature people I wouldn’t have in my home or want to sit next to on a bus. I also get antsy watching people lose competitions or struggle with weight/drugs/hoarding or other addictions. But reality shows are wildly popular with lots of folks, so long may they thrive.

As for me, I want stories. Well-written stories with terrific dialogue and a splendid cast to bring complex characters to life. But in reviewing my favorite shows, I realized they all have one apparently crucial feature in common: at least one extraordinarily handsome and/or fascinating man. Take, for instance, the “model” for the hero of my current book-in-progress, which was already in progress before White Collar debuted on the USA network. Matt Bomer, playing the charming, clever forger/thief/multi-tasking criminal Neal Caffrey, is precisely what I had in mind for my Regency rogue, Jason (Jace) Delafield. Well, without the actual criminal part.

Being in company with a guy very like the one I’m writing about is enough reason for me to tune in every week. But fact is, everyone on the show is excellent. The picture shows Mozzie, Neal’s quirky partner-in-crime, straight-laced FBI agent Peter Burke, and Peter’s wise and tolerant wife. It’s difficult to encapsulate a brilliant white-collar crime and the solving or thwarting of it in one measly hour, but creator and writer Jeff Eastin does pretty well at that, and the dialog is superb. I’m a big fan.

Burn Notice, which used to top my list, keeps me coming back in spite of the violence. I’m not averse to violence in fiction, but really, I could do without yet another car chase, a car flying off a building or a bridge, or virtually any action scene involving a car. Yawn.

It’s Jeffrey Donovan (playing Michael Westin, ex-CIA agent tossed out for unknown reasons) and especially his cool, clever voice-over explanations of what he’s doing and why that immediately won my heart. Bruce Campbell, gone somewhat to seed, is terrific as a stalwart but not always trustworthy sidekick, and Sharon Gless is the mom you’ve got to love and sometimes make a point of avoiding. Gabrielle Anwar plays Fiona, Westin’s former girlfriend, whose skill with guns, explosives, and hand-to-hand combat makes the macho guys look like relative pussies. High stakes, good writing, Miami scenery, but stay clear if violence turns you off.

Bones began to grow on me when David Boreanaz, playing FBI Agent Seeley Booth, lost some of that brooding all-business attitude he'd arrived with as Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Spike got all the good lines and the humor, which left Angel in a dark corner. He loosened a bit in the Angel sequel to Buffy, but Seeley Booth started off pretty dark and stiff. Boreanaz plays that well, but now it's evident he has a talent for manly-man goofiness as well. I'm enjoying the new episodes and catching up on shows I didn't bother to watch during the somber times. The new ones can still be tense and dramatic when the script requires, but these days, Bones is a lot more fun.

Of the other programs currently on my list, I enjoy but don’t go out of my way for Leverage, Royal Pains, Castle, The Mentalist, and House.

However, In Plain Sight, which I didn’t expect to like, has got me hooked. Set in Albuquerque, it features U.S. Marshals involved in the witness protection program. Toughest of them all is “Mary Shannon,” whose dysfunctional family life will be downplayed in the upcoming season.

Yay. I’ve put up with that in order to enjoy the repartee between Mary and her laconic partner Fred, fairly tasty eye candy his own self.

But he fades into the woodwork when May’s fiancé comes onto the scene. Meet actor Cristián de la Fuente, who plays May’s fiancé, Raphael (Raph) Ramirez. As a supporting character, he gets less screen time than I’d like (which would have him there beginning to end), but even when he’s missing, the stories and writing are worth an hour of attention.

Note to the Casting Director of the upcoming Stephanie Plum movie: Ranger!!!

So, what are your favorite TV shows? Even if they don’t feature beautiful men, I might be missing something wonderful.

My New Hobby! (Maggie)

2010-03-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

Salt water aquariums are hard. That's what everyone told me when I kept saying that I wanted one. "Salt water? Whoa! They're hard!" I now know why. And I'm going to spill it right here.

Above, my whole tank. Don't be fooled, the white and brown rocks are real, but all the pretty green coral is just the tank's background film. Mine will look like that some day. Those piled up rocks will become a living coral reef!

Below that, two of my fish, a striped damsel "Vinnie" and a yellow-tail damsel, "Blue."

Marine tanks are hard because no two people have the same advice on anything! I got mine for my birthday, 2/6, so it's about a month old now. One "expert" told me to buy a few fish right away, and after I did so, another told me that it was too soon and that my fish were doomed to an untimely death. (All but one are still alive a month later and I'm very attached to them, so I hope they stay that way!)

Left, one of my two clownfish, and Vinnie again. The clownfish are Larry and Cill. I don't know why, they just told me those were their names. And I know it looks real, but that pretty thing they seem to be swimming over is tank background again, though I will grow one soon.

One expert told me that my ordinary fluorescent lighting wasn't sufficient and that I had to buy "Actinec" lighting for coral to grow. So I did. Then another expert told me I didn't need that at all. Shortly after adding the new lights, I had a bunch of rusty brown algae growing all over the tank. Two of the experts told me to do a partial water change, clean the filter, vacuum the crushed coral on the bottom, and scrub the algae off the rocks. So I did. One of these two also said it was all the new lighting's fault, and to turn them off.

"Blue" and "Cill. The white formation on the right is a brain coral, the one on the left, a piece of what they call Texas rock, and the furry green one balanced between the two is Figi rock. Many of my rocks are starting to grow interesting things on them, and this is what I want. It's corraline algae, (as opposed to brown bad algae) and the beginning of making my tank look like its background.

So I scrubbed and turned off the lights. And then another expert told me that was the worst thing I could have done. The algae is part of the "cycle" and has to come and go before the tank is truly stable. And the book I bought said that poor lighting, not great lighting, causes nuisance algae. And that good lighting is essential or all my live rock will die. Sigh. I turned the lights back on. The algae came back. (I had a pool, people. I know that the more light you have the more algae you grow. But these "experts" can't even agree on that much.) Oh, but I found something else in the book. Get some "Turbo Snails" it said. They will eat the bad algae, which I now know is called "Diatom Algae."

These are "featherdusters" and

are actually a type of worm, although they look like tiny daisies. I have one growing in my tank but couldn't get a good shot of it, so I borrowed these, which are identical, though I have only one. Isn't it awesome?

Off to the store I went to buy turbo snails, expecting them to have little motors sticking up out of their shells, and to be wearing racing goggles. The expert there said Turbo Snails won't eat brown algae. But hermit crabs will. Ugh! Enough already. I bought three of each. And guess what? The snails ARE eating the algae. And so are the crabs. The book said nothing was better than snails for eating algae. The book was wrong, because the crabs are actually eating it faster. But the expert said snails wouldn't touch it, and he too was wrong, because they are chowing down on that stuff.

I was told I had to have a protein skimmer, that it might save my fish during the first cycle where they could be at risk. I bought one. Another expert said I didn't need one until AFTER the first cycle, and that it would do me no good whatsoever until then, but it wouldn't hurt anything. He added that what I really needed was a powerhead, to make the current go faster, and help the coral grow. So I bought that too. And now I've been told my filter should be upgraded to a cool German one. You know the Germans make great stuff, right? At least according to the Sham-Wow guy. It's on my list.

The brown, diatom algae, is still there, but it has stopped spreading. My four fish are still alive and doing well, and my live rock is sprouting all kinds of teeny signs of life. The first cycle is supposed to be where the ammonia level goes up a bit, then goes back down as Nitrites go up, and then those go down as Nitrates go up. That's a cycle. (That and brown algae coming and going, I guess.) Ammonia and Nitrites are highly toxic to the fish. The first cycle takes about four weeks to happen, I'm told. It's been four weeks. I test my water every four days, and I have yet to see any spike in those levels. There was a small one, the first week, and I lost one fish, but it was only a day or two after I bought him, and I was sure he wasn't well to begin with. (Originally, I had two yellow tailed Damsels like "Blue.") All the experts say the first cycle would not have happened that soon, within the first week. But nothing's happened since. I'm on pins and needles awaiting it, as they've got me so scared about the whole thing. Or I was. Now I'm getting to a zen state about the entire thing.

All of my experts are really and truly experts. One has 35 tanks of his own, one of which is 900 gallons, and works at a pet store as the resident salt water guy. (My own tank is 90 gallons.) Another takes care of 300 tanks at at another pet store, and has his own too. A third takes care of probably 50 tanks at yet another store, and has one of his own. Others are small time tank owners who don't work in stores at all. And then there's the book. No two sources agree on anything. It's frustrating.

But I'm a pretty smart cookie myself. And I'm figuring this out. I have scoured the net and the stores and the experts for info and I've learned a few things. I know that the more live rock I have in the tank, the cleaner I keep my filter, and the more often I do water changes, the less likely it is that any ammonia spike will be big enough to kill all my fish. (And they all disagree on water changing too. I'm doing 5 gallons each week. Some say change 10-20% of the water once per month and do it all at once. Others say to do no water changes until the first cycle is done. The book recommends small changes weekly that add up to 10-20% per month. Still another says to change 80% of the water Aieeeee!) I'm swapping out a 4.4 gallon jug of my water, for a 4.4 gallon jug of store bought sea water, weekly. My feeling is that small changes are less disruptive and shocking to the fish and keep the water more stable.

I also believe that good lighting, a strong current, the protein skimmer, and feeding them enough, but not too much, will also limit the effects of the looming ammonia spike.

I'm doing my research, and now that I'm getting comfortable with the tank, I'm not jumping through every hoop every expert tells me to. I'm asking around, taking all the opinions and then doing what seems to make the most sense to me. I wasn't confident enough to do that at first. And as I said, my fish are still alive and my live rock is sprouting corraline algae, so I must be doing something right.

And then, just the other day, I found something I had not entirely understood in the book. I'm paraphrasing here, but the book says, basically, "Whatever you do, don't get your advice from numerous different sources. Find one you trust and listen to it."

I read that bit at the beginning, but now I know why it's there.

Now as much as this post might sound like I'm griping, I'm really not. I understand why the opinions are so varied. No two people do this quite the same way, and lots of different methods work. It's like writing. No two writers do it quite the same way, and if you ask ten writers the same question, you'll get ten different answers. You have to find the way that works for you.

Far from being annoyed by all this, I'm amused. I'm laughing about it. And in the meantime, I'm in love with my aquarium. Every new bit of furry stuff on a rock thrills me. My fish come right up to the glass when I look in at them. The clowns are like puppies, they're so friendly. It's like having a bit of the ocean in my living room, and that's really cool, and every bit of fussing I do with it, is fun. People say these tanks are a lot of work, but it's not work to me. I'm enjoying all of this. And learning too.

Okay, so what hobbies or pleasures to you partake in that other people might think of as work? Tell me about them!

Meanwhile, Vinnie, Blue, Larry and Cill say hi!

Maggie

Help! I've been Confiscated! (Tara Taylor Quinn)

2010-03-03T04:53:00.000-08:00

I'm here, sort of, but not really. I've been trying for an hour to gather thoughts that would be appropriate to share, and that also string together in some kind of cohesive message, and I have failed. I am not in possession of all of my faculties at the moment. Kelly Chapman has most of them. I've been trying to wrestle them from her, but she's not giving them up.

I guess she knows better than I do. I guess we'll all be glad that she stood her ground when we hear what she has to say. I hope so, anyway.

So, I'm giving in. Not as a victim, mind you, but as a wise woman who understands and accepts the process. I am a writer. I agreed to share my mind with the voices who have things to say that the world wants to hear. I trust that the world will want to hear the voices that are speaking to me.

I've come up with several topics that I'd like to discuss. Like why would a five year old, listing things she did in a day, find it important to write that she saw a moth in the den? Was she afraid of the moth? Had she never seen a moth before and found it curious? Or fascinating? Did she think the moth was funny flying around there? Was she afraid it might eat at the fabric of the furniture? Or land on her if she took a nap? Did she think moth's bite? Or wonder why it looked like an ugly butterfly?

And then I realized, Kelly has control of my brain. She's a psychologist. She analyzes every little thing. And big thing. And looks for deeper meanings when really, there was just a little moth in the den. End of story.

Next topic I came up with - and actually started blogging about - was the word victim. Or, more accurately, being a victim. And even more accurately, how a woman who is strong, independent, intelligent and successful can be a victim without even realizing that she is one. Sometimes, as women, in our determination to not be victims at any cost, we become one without our knowledge, without the ability to help ourselves because we are held hostage, blinded, by that determination to not be a victim. Strong women can also be victims. Victims of crime, of course, but also victims of abuse...

Ah...Kelly again. And The First Wife. The first file Kelly opened to me.

And the next topic that I started in on was trust. If we don't trust, we will never be truly happy. And yet, every time we give our trust we open ourselves up to the possibility of betrayal. We give others the opportunity to manipulate us. We...

Stop it already!! Kelly AGAIN. And The Second Lie.

I'm trying really hard not to let her get started on The Third Secret. Because if she gets started, I'm not going to stop. I love Rick. He's probably the most interesting, most in depth character that has ever appeared in my brain. He's hard and the things he's done, the secrets he keeps are heinous. He lies without conscience. And he'd die without blinking for what he believes is right. He made a mistake when he was three. And come on, how can any of us be held accountable for what we did when we were three? Rick's mom took off when he was a baby. And his dad - well he kept the boys, gave them a home, of sorts. He'd probably have been a real dad, too, if he could have kept his mouth away from the bottle. So Rick, at three, was used to thinking for himself. Solving his own problems, such as they were. Like...trying to get a piece of cardboard to fly like the airplane he saw in the sky. So...he makes this mistake. And gives up the rest of his life to make amends. I thank Kelly for showing him to me. I'm just not sure how he finds his peace.

And this is only the beginning. Kelly Chapman, an expert witness psychologist, has an office full of files. One file for each case. And one by one, she's sharing them with me to give them to you. I'm getting every single gritty detail. Funny how so many of them have little bits and pieces of my life threaded through them. Almost like Kelly's been with me my whole life. Come to think of it, I've always been one to analyze everything to death.

Unfortunately while I am happy to accommodate Kelly, she's not real understanding of my limitations. She wants her stories out now. All of them. At once. So, coincidentally, does my editor. Right now, as I write this, I look down at my desk and to my left is a 450 page manuscript (The Second Lie) in the line edit stage, waiting for my changes and corrections. To the right is a 320 page manuscript (The First Wife) also in the line edit stage, waiting for my changes and corrections. And in the middle of the two, right in front of me is the calendar and character card binder and synopsis for the currently 350 page manuscript (The Third Secret) that's on my computer screen underneath blogger's window. It's waiting to be finished. The Second Lie is due back on Friday of this week. The First Wife is due back on Friday of next week. And The Third Secret is due now.

The Fourth Victim, a piddly little 45 page thing at the moment, is due by April. In that one, Kelly was just abducted. But don't worry, it didn't shut her up.

And I cannot afford to shut her up, either. I need her talking, non-stop, if I'm going to meet my deadlines. Thankfully Tim doesn't mind when we get abducted like this. He donates his thoughts to the process and makes certain that I'm hearing, and understanding, everything Kelly has to say. Every once in a while he tries to tell her she's wrong. She listens to him better than she does to me.

So, with my creative energies currently under capture, I'm going to have to resort to giving you Kelly. I look to my left and see the opening of The Second Lie. Kelly's talking. On Monday, August, 2, 2010.

"I couldn't find a pencil that hadn't been chewed on. So what if the existing ones all bore my own teeth marks? Sometimes a girl just needed fresh wood..."

Did I mention that these books are emotionally intense suspense? I might be in real trouble...

Having Fun is Hard? (Suzanne Forster)

2010-03-02T08:27:00.000-08:00

For me the answer is yes, it can be. Just call me an ant trying to get in touch with my inner grasshopper. I seem to feel best when I’m being productive, which goes right back to the work ethic I was raised with. (Thanks a lot, Mom.) And yes, I’m sure there’s some Puritan guilt mixed in there as well. We were a devout bunch, my family. But time marches on and despite all the “shoulds” I carry with me, I’m rapidly reaching the point in my life where all work and no play sounds every bit as boring as the rhyme about Jack suggests.

It’s time I entered the Fun Zone while I’m still flexible enough to have some fun! Of course, it’s never too late to start stretching exercises, but the first step is really mental flexiblity--being open to change.

I’ve known for some time that I was fun-challenged, and I’ve made attempts to get out of my rut, but nothing really stuck. Recently, I had wake-up call and with it came a minor epiphany: I’m not the only woman out there who doesn’t know how to have fun. It looks like there might be quite a few of us, despite the Cyndi Lauper song.

A little background: An on-line friend of mine was facing a trip she dreaded. She’d had word that her elderly mother required surgery. Of course, my friend wanted to be there for her mother, but the expense of the last-minute flight was breathtaking, and worse, she had a deathly fear of flying.

Several of us offered our sympathies—and some offered advice to help with her fears. I told her she should reward herself for her bravery when she got to her destination, hoping that would help distract her while she was on the plane. I’ve had to deal with my own fears of flying, so I know the grit it takes and having something fun to look forward to can help. But coming up with enjoyable things to do was … well, hard! Her other online friends seemed stymied too. Some of us fell back on the old standby, chocolate.

Maybe it was the nature of my friend’s visit. Surgery doesn’t inspire fun thoughts, but isn't that all the more reason for a pleasurable diversion? She had her mother to think about too, who would likely need some distracting in the days before the operation, along with lots of TLC.

It still seems to be true that giving is easier for women than receiving, unless it’s giving to ourselves. We just aren’t very good at that—-and maybe that’s what makes it tough to come up with suggestions for our women friends. But whatever the reasons, they need to change. Fun should not be hard—-or even hard to imagine.

So, here’s an idea. Let’s rephrase. Let’s swap the word fun for reward. I can actually think in terms of rewarding myself because that suggests I’ve done something reward-worthy. Eventually I want to enjoy guilt-free rewards and fun, but this is a good place to start. And I can actually think of several things I enjoy that would be great rewards.

Food, of course. I’m crazy about sweets and I’ve been known to treat myself to a large DQ chocolate-dipped cone on occasion, but food is much too convenient a source of pleasure—and not all that much fun if you’re given to overdoing, as I am when it comes to DQ.

Definitely music—-love music, especially when it involves dancing. But dancing requires a partner and Allan’s not really inclined. Dance exercise classes are tricky for me because of my wobbly left kneecap, which tolerates dancing well because there are regular breaks, but not exercise, the point of which is not to take breaks. So, dancing for fun is going to take a bit more creativity.

Gardening is pure joy for me, but it can be very goal-oriented and I have to be careful or it starts to feel too much like work. Movies, I love, reading, of course—and chatting with friends over coffee or a glass of wine. That I don’t do nearly enough.

I’ll come up with more, I promise, but it may take some concentration. And meanwhile, how about some inspiration? What are your guilt-free pleasures? Do you have ways of rewarding yourself or does having fun come easily to you? We women need to share our secrets and encourage each other!

Suz

It's Blitz Time Again (Anne Stuart)

2010-03-01T03:27:00.001-08:00

I'm on a countdown for the current book. For a lot of reasons I'm on the tightest schedule I've ever been in my life, and deadlines are coming at me like ... god, I can't even waste my poor overworked brain on a proper simile. Trust me, they're coming at me.
I did my calculations and discovered that I need to write 20 pages a day to finish the current book, so I girded my loins and waded into battle like the good Viking/Scot that I am (I'm half Danish and the other half Scots-mongrel).
The first day was a disaster. I wrote 18 pages, emerged from my office feeling sick, went to visit my mother, called the doctor from there about her appointments and then mentioned me. Off I went for a routine bladder infection, and they wanted me to stick around. I kept saying "just let me pee in a cup and call in the scrip" and they kept saying no, I had to see the doctor. Sigh. I finally just walked out, came home and collapsed and slept two hours. When I awoke the health center had called and indeed I had a UTI (Urinary Tract Infection) and they'd called in the meds. Jeesh! But that night we were having a family dinner party in honor of my mother in law, who died last Sunday, and I'd been kept at the health center so long I couldn't make bread, and I had to drive 14 miles round trip to pick up the meds, swing by the party for an hour and then drag my sorry butt home to bed.
Saturday was better. I managed 23 pages, bringing me one ahead of what I needed, without many interruptions but my daily visit to my mother and a four hour nap (I guess I was sick).
Sunday we had problem-solving with my son, skyping with my daughter (a treat, since we don't get to see her very often), chopping vegetables for a boatload of spaghetti sauce (we make our own and freeze it) and my SIL for dinner (she goes home today) but somehow between everything I managed my twenty pages. Which makes 61 pages in three days and I'm beginning to think my calculations might be wrong. The book is due March 15th. It needs to be at least 400 pages. I'm now at page 226. so I have at least 175 to write in 15 days. Hmmmm. Where's Calculator on this computer ...
Well, crap. I WAS wrong. I only need to write 11.66666666 pages a day to make the deadline with a rough draft. And to be more honest, the rough draft usually comes out to be about 425-450 (I write spare, remember), so that would be ...at most, 15 pages a day.
Well, Glory Be! I spent three days being panicked and now I can back down a tiny bit.

I was trying to think of ways to reward myself, with things like a half hour sewing, but of course I've been too tired to sew once I've finished my work. But now I know I can be a little more reasonable, particularly since I always write vast amounts at the end, with 30 and 40 page days.

. So look for an update next week. I'm also posting my daily totals on Facebook and on my Drama Queen blog if you need a blow by blow description check there.

Oh, and today's my 35th wedding anniversary to the best man in the world. And now I'll be able to relax and enjoy it instead of worrying that I should be home writing.

As Crusie would say, nothing but good times ahead.

A Very Big Thank You (Pat)

2010-02-26T20:31:00.001-08:00

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Since I mentioned my mom's 100th birthday on the blog, my mother has been flooded with cards. We're at 87 now, and I think we might reach 100. They are coming in fast.

I cannot tell you how much they have meant to her. The nursing home folks say they have never seen anything like it, and she has become a big celebrity there.

I wish you could all see the way her face just beams when a new batch arrives. She picks up one, asks about the sender, reads it carefully, then puts it down. Then two minutes later she picks it up again and reads even more carefully.

I can't remember when she has smiled like this.

Today -- Saturday -- is her birthday, and her grandchildren and I are going to take her brunch. No ordinary breakfast on her 100th birthday. Jelly donutes -- her very favorite -- is on the menu, along with link sausages and fruit. Then we will leave her for a nap and return for a birthday party at four p.m. (The nursing home has a really nice family room we can use). The menu here is shrimp and lasagna and salad and hot bread and one of the best birthday cakes anyone has ever seen. There will be between fifteen and sixteen people not including an unborn but soon to come great, great grandaughter.

Thanks to you, her birthday has lasted all week. I'll be forever grateul for the moments of joy you've given her.

Details and pics next week.

On the Street Where I Live (Lynn Kerstan)

2010-02-26T00:30:00.000-08:00

I live in an historical building. By Coronado standards, that means it's maybe a hundred years old. The picture shows the "island"--in the 1890s, I'm guessing, because construction on the Hotel Del Coronado is clearly finished. It's the blotch above the beach toward the right.

The landscape is flat and marked out with a grid created by the developers who had bought the entire parcel. To the lower right is Glorietta bay, and to its left, just above the Hotel Del, are two bowl-shaped ellipses. My apartment complex is located on the left curve of the rightmost bowl. Could that be more convoluted? I'm lousy at giving directions even when there's a map!

This close-up of the San Diego Bay side shows the sparse scattering of houses and, significantly, the planting of trees or hedge bushes or whatever those things are. They were a good start, because today, Coronado is known for its beautiful gardens, eclectic in style and lovingly tended. Especially this time of year, because in April comes the Flower Show and the awarding of ribbons to the loveliest and best maintained residences on the island.

Because my gardening experience is limited to pulling lawn weeds for a penny per weed when I was a kid. I am ever in awe of the beauty and the work that goes into the making and tending of gardens. My landlord, after winning the best-in-show equivalent for his category, has retired from competition, but he continues to make sure the three buildings that make up this complex remain true to their elegant history.

This is "The Mission," built around a courtyard as so many of Father Serra's actual missions were way back when. The gardners were at work there today, trimming and weeding and planting. Within a few weeks, the courtyard will be blooming for sure.

But before the planting comes the clearing out and the pruning.

In this shot of the building on the corner (top of the bowl), you can see the trimmed trees, a bit of greenery, and nary a flower. But within the week, there will be a riot of bright impatiens and, for dignity, a glory of calla lilies and other beautiful flowers I cannot name.

The building I'm in, between the Mission and the "big" Vanderbilt, is much smaller, having only four apartments. Lucky for the cat, the large bay window offers him a view of, well, not very much. But with "No Pets" being appended to nearly every Coronado apartment-for-rent ad, this is one of the few places where animals are welcomed with open arms. Nearly everyone who lives here has one or more cats and/or dogs, all well-behaved and cleaned-up-after. The pets pay rent, to be sure, enough to cover the added cleanup at move-out. Cats barf (Lymond almost never, fortunately) and dogs do whatever dogs do, so it's only fair the welcoming landlord doesn't pick up the added costs. I moved here after my cat was abruptly evicted from a San Diego apartment in which I'd lived, always with a cat or two, for a quarter of a century. Sometimes a catastrophe is a blessing in disguise.

On a whole other subject, I wish to honor my heroes. Meet (left to right) Sergio and Roberto, our maintenance men for the last year and a half. Sweet-natured Sergio, no taller than I, is truly "strong like bull." When I was in chemo and had to be extracted from the apartment for medical appointments, he was was able to maneuver me up and down the stairs of this apartment. So could Roberto, he of the wicked and straight-faced sense of humor. Both willingly help me any time I ask, which I try not to do. But this week, they were tested by major plumbling problems I shall not describe because they were too disgusting.

That's the problem with an historical building: 100-year-old-pipes. The troubles began on Monday evening and were not ended until Thusday afternoon, with unbearable noises and comings and goings much of that time. When I needed facilities, I padded over to a vacant apartment, which is fine in daytime and not so much in the middle of the night. But Roberto and Sergio kept at it, and today, my tiny bathroom--thoroughly cleaned--is working well.

Naturally, Lymond supervised their work...from a distance. And when the noise subsided, he mounted the cat tree to supervise the gardeners. For him, this was an exciting week. I kind of like the picture because he looks as if he were siting on the roof of the truck parked outside.

I FEEL IT! (Maggie)

2010-02-25T02:37:00.000-08:00

It's way too soon for me to start getting butterflies in my stomach. Okay, yes, I have three, back to back, romantic suspense novels coming out in a row this summer. "The Secrets of Shadow Falls" trilogy. Three big books. Three summer release dates. I've been wanting some summer reading releases forever. I think I've had May, October, May, October, May, October for five years now. It probably hasn't been that long. Or maybe it has.

Do I sound nervous?

I'm not. Not nervous that is. Not in a bad way, I mean. I'm just . . . buzzing. Every nerve ending is vibrating. An F-5 Twister is taking shape in my belly. I'm quivering with anticipation.

I always get a little jittery just before a book comes out. I do. Of course I do. I get nervous. I start thinking it's not going to do as well as my high hopes have wished for. I start thinking about how disappointing it might be if the book doesn't sell. I start wondering if the readers are going to like it.

But this time is different. It feels like something . . . big. Really really big.

I've had premonitions before. They've rarely, if ever, let me down. I knew when first started writing stories, that it was what I was supposed to be doing. No one else would have believed it. I'd never gone to college. I was a teenage mother. I lived in the middle of nowhere. I didn't even know how to type. But I never even considered any of that, because the tide of knowing. The feeling of a perfect fit. The sense that this is my joy, was sweeping me away. There was just no doubting that feeling.

I knew the first time I kissed my love that he was the one for me. And everyone thought that was insane. The age difference, the family issues, the opposition, the odds against us. Everyone thought I was out of my mind. But I couldn't hear anything but that certainty. This feels right. This is my bliss. Again, that irresistible pull that I couldn't and didn't want to resist.

I knew when I first walked into my house, Serenity, that it was supposed to be my new home. I didn't doubt it, even when my first offer was meant with a firm "no" and my follow up offer, with the news that the house had already sold. There was just no way this place was not going to be mine. No way. It was home. It embraced me in warmth and welcome when I first walked through the door. It beckoned me. And so I was undaunted, and phoned the seller myself to tell him that I was ready to give the asking price, when he was ready to sell to me. A few weeks later, the first deal fell through, and I was there, waiting.

Some things are so big and so important in life, that you feel them before they even arrive. So it is with these three books.

I've been sensing that I'm on the edge of something radically different for a year now. Maybe closer to two. I keep feeling it, and the closer I get to it, the more I seem to vibrate with that knowing. I didn't even know what the thing was, at first. But I've homed in on it now. It's these three books.

The closer we get to summer, and their release, the more excited I get. It's hard to sit still. It's hard not to run up and down the streets, yelling, "I can't wait for July, August and September!!!"

Anyway, I'm just getting it out a little by blogging about it here. (And my apologies to anyone who saw this earlier this morning, when it published itself half finished.) Please let me tell you about them just a little bit.

I'll be putting up excerpts beginning in May, a bit at a time, every week, until the release date, over on my website, www.maggieshayne.com. I'll be doing some things with the camcorder for the website, too. I don't know if there will be a traditional "book trailer" yet or not. I'm looking into something a bit different. But I'm very, very very pumped up about my summer releases. I love all three books. And I think the readers are going to love them, too.

The first one, Killing Me Softly (July) features Dawn Jones, a heroine who was introduced in an earlier suspense trilogy I did. (But these new books are truly "stand alones." You do not have to read the earlier series to "get" them. But I think you'll love these so much that you'll want to go back and find those anyway.) That earlier series didn't have a name to it, but fans have been calling it the Mordecai Young series, after its villain, who pretty much stole the show in those books. (Thicker than Water, Colder than Ice, Darker than Midnight.) In those books, Dawn inherited the ability to talk to the dead from her father. But that gift turned him into a homicidal maniac. It drove him insane, so she's terrified of it, and at the end of the third book of that series, she left home and we had no idea where she was going or when she would be back. In this new story, she's forced to return to Vermont when her first love, Bryan, is accused of murder. The dead haven't spoken to Dawn in five long years, and now she's both terrified they'll begin again, and terrified that they won't.

In the second book, Kill Me Again, I featured my dog, Dozer. His name, in the story, is Freddy, and he belongs to college professor Olivia Dupree, the heroine. Here he is with my grandson, Benny. He's just the best dog ever. In the book, he drools a little less, obeys tiny bit more, (although Dozer really is a great about doing what he's told, most of the time. You know, unless he doesn't want to) and just really gets involved in the story. I was hoping they'd put him on the cover, but I guess a big, goofy looking mastiff doesn't exactly scream "edge of your seat, nail biting tension" on a book cover, does it? And the book is tense, and suspenseful and exciting. So no dog cover. Still, he's almost as big a star in the story as the couple.

And the third book's hero is very, very much like my partner, Lance, except for the wandering part. Lance would probably like to be a modern day Gypsy, we both would, but we're both devoted to our respective, equally large families, so we stick pretty close to home. One of these days, though, we're really hitting the road to do some serious traveling. We've been thinking about a great big monster bus type RV and--oh, wait, I got off the topic, didn't I. =) I really did model Gabriel Cain after Lance on a lot of levels, though. His good looks, his long hair, his easy going, laid back nature, his positive approach to things, his calm in a crisis. None of the details of course, about his life and past. That's all made up. I'm just talking character traits here. And that made the book really deep to me. In probing Gabriel's depths, I found myself having insights about Lance as I went along.

So anyway, spring is coming. it's nearly March, and the first book hits in July, so every sign of spring seems to make me more . . . I guess giddy is the word. I'm over the moon wound up about this summer.

So, thanks for letting me wax on about this. Now I just need to find some creative and healthy outlets for all the energy this excited anticipation is building in me. Exercise and writing new stories seem to be the ticket, and both are good ways to vent this head of roiling steam.

Anyway, I love this feeling of anticipation. And it makes me wonder if everyone gets these powerful feelings when something wonderful and maybe life-altering is about to happen? Tell me about it!

Maggie

Choices (Tara Taylor Quinn)

2010-02-23T13:46:00.000-08:00

I've heard so much in my life that life is about choices. That choices make us who we are - and who we aren't. I believe this theory. I live by it. Sometimes to the point of driving myself nuts. I get stalemated by my own thoughts as I weigh the pros and cons of choices. I can't make a choice for fear of making the wrong one. I hate that. For the obvious reason of being caught in a conundrum that won't let me out. But also because I know that if I don't make a choice, the choice will be made for me. No choice is often the choice of 'no,' as opposed to choosing 'yes.' So often times opportunities are missed because of fear to make a choice. Or indecision. Fear of making the wrong choice. I'd hate to see an accounting of all of my missed opportunities, of all of the things I could have done or experienced, all the ways I could have helped other people, comforted them, if only I'd made a choice instead of wasting my time pondering and letting the chance pass me by.

I might not ever see that list, but I'm aware of it. And, of course, completely aware of some of the things that would be on that list if I ever did see it. Which is why I love it when some little something comes along that helps the stagnated mental choice process along. Something that makes things simple. Or at least a little more clear. That happened to me this week. Which is often the way these things work. I'll be struggling with an issue, a question, a choice or decision. I'll be pondering some major or minor point, and then, without warning or fanfare, and often without coming from anyplace I'd expect or be looking, I get an answer.

Some say that's what happens when you listen to the still small voice. Some say it's God or his angels or some other spiritual force talking to you. Some say its your inner wisdom, or the wise elder that is your connection to past life or the next life. Some say its coincidence. I don't care what it's called. I just know that it exists. I love that it exists. And when I am presented with an answer, I pay attention. Or maybe because I pay attention I get the answers. Could be a chicken and egg thing.

I've been pondering my inability to be all the things I want to be to all the people I want to be them. I give my all to the people in my life. I hate more than just about anything else, the feeling that I've let down someone I care about. I've been deeply hurt. I can't bear the idea of having been the cause of depths of pain to someone else.

But...I'm only one person. I can only do so much. Be stretched so thin. Especially since I expect much from those I care about. I can only expect much if I give that much more. And I am also limited somewhat by my earthly, human abilities. And disabilities. I can only do my best. Not someone else's best. I can only understand what I can understand. I can only know what I know or learn. I can only think how I think, not how someone else thinks. At least to an extent.

And life is about give and take, anyway. It's about experiencing all of the nuances of being human. Knowing joy and pain and anger and excitement. About loving and abhorring. It's about learning to make choices through all of the experiences. Choices that will serve us, in one way or another. It's about growth. It's about sometimes having to bear pain. And to cause pain, too, though I hate that.

I also hate that I can't make anyone else happy. I can only facilitate where I have entrance to their journey. I can only give them joy and help and support where they are open to receiving it. And what happens when you care about two people who need opposing things from you? Valid things. Good and right things. But you just can't do them both. You have another darn choice to make.

So...I've been pondering all of this over the past couple of weeks. Tim has this theory he calls the pyramid. We all need someone to be close to. A confidant. That person that you trust with everything. The person you feel safe with. You have that person at the top of the pyramid and everyone else in your life fills out the rest of the pyramid. In the sense I choose to see this, I have the person I am one with, the person I share every aspect of my life with, and all others filter down through that. If I am concerned about someone, or need to help someone, I have the person at the top of my pyramid aware, supporting. And I do the same for that person. If I can't help someone close to the top of my pyramid, the person at the top with me is there for them. It's like a family with the mother and father at the top of the pyramid and all children and relatives and parents and friends are tended to out of the strength of the two at the head of their own pyramid. I like the theory. It's a way to share responsibility for the choices. Checks and balances. I don't have to worry so much about being perfect because there is someone right alongside me picking up my slack. And I do the same.

But it leaves a lot of room for the kind of choices I've been pondering. I want everyone I meet, everyone I happen to pass on the street, everyone I might ever meet, or have met in the past, to be on my pyramid. Not because I want to have the fullest pyramid on the block, but because I feel responsible. I want to be able to help everyone I come in contact with. If I've hurt someone, I ponder and ponder, going in circles trying to figure out how to make it better. If I know something I have to do is going to hurt someone, I procrastinate and cause a whole lot more pain in the long run. And then there are the people that I don't even meet that I put on my pyramid, allotting them my mental and emotional resources. Tim and I took an adventure this past weekend. We left home early Saturday morning to drive west and stop where we felt like stopping. Our goal was to look at antiques. Didn't matter where. Or what kind. We weren't looking for anything in particular. The goal was the experience itself.

And so we found ourselves in some little town in Indiana. It had a small downtown with a couple of antique shops. (Not sure they knew that, but we deemed them so.) We stopped to eat at a diner that didn't look like a diner at all, or even an office you'd want to visit, but that had hearts drawn on the window and a full parking lot. We figured if the locals thought the place had good food, it did.

We figured right. The food was homemade. And fabulous. It was also inexpensive. And plentiful. The people were friendly. Real people, not just workers. And as I sat there, this couple came in. I've determined it was a son (he was about sixty) and his mother (who was at least eighty. They were seated directly in front of us. She was facing us. His back was to us. (We were in booths.) I heard her asking him about the menu. He responded. Sounded kindly at first. And then a little less patiently. She asked something else and he ignored her. Or didn't hear. I think it was selective listening. He probably really didn't hear. Because he was used to tuning her out. The waitress arrived to take their order and the woman confessed that she couldn't read the menu. Her eyes were too bad. She asked the waitress to read her the entire thing. Which she did. At least five times. That waitress was fabulous. And the woman was happy with what she'd ordered. (There are certain things she couldn't eat due to health issues.) The woman then went on speaking with her son. Talking to him about life issues. Her perceptions of current events. He grunted. Made a comment now and then. Mostly he looked down at his food, consuming it. He was a nice looking guy. Clean cut. An air of success about him. But not an air of ego. I had the feeling that he loved his mother. But her needs taxed him beyond his ability to give.

I wanted to walk her right out of there and bring her home. I'm here alone all day. I'd be happy to listen to her. To care for her. She was a wonderful woman. Honest. Caring. Bright. And not afraid to speak up for what she needed, too. She spoke her own mind, kindly, but firmly. She wasn't trying to get anyone else to do what she wanted, but she was not letting herself be pushed aside as though she was a nuisance either. I wanted to make certain she didn't have to fight so hard in the future to be heard. She wasn't being cantankerous, or asking for unreasonable things. She just wanted to order food that she wanted to eat and she couldn't see to do so.
Well, okay, it's not my business. She probably doesn't need my help (she managed just fine to get her job done) but I can't get the woman out of my mind. I keep thinking about her. Wondering if I could have done something. Said something. Wondering if there is someone in my own life, like that woman, who needs me to be aware. To help. And in the meantime, while I'm busy worrying about this woman I don't know, I've gone a few days without calling my own mother. See, it's the choices. And me getting caught up in my inability to choose where to put my people energy.
And it occurred to me that I'm a woman. (Well, it didn't JUST occur to me, but...) Generally, women are nurturers. It's a built in thing with us. And that part of me has a tough time making choices - to the point that I don't nurture as well as I should because I'm stagnated in my choices of how to disperse my resources. And just as I'm pondering all of this, there's this statement that's been flying around the Internet. I've intercepted it a couple of times in a couple of different places. It was that little voice - the answer that quieted the pondering. I'm guessing some of you have already heard it, but it goes like this: "Never make someone a priority if they only make you an option."
I needed to hear that. That's not to say that I'm crossing everyone off my list who doesn't pay a lot of attention to me - it's just a starting point, a foundation to come to, as I make my choices. Its grounds my thoughts and gives me a point of measure.
The statement is also very important for us, as women, when we're in relationships that aren't good for us. We tend to want to fix things. To take the blame. To nurture and put on band-aids and make it all better. When, in fact, we're only allowing ourselves to be hurt. Again and again and again. We allow ourselves to be used because we have soft hearts. The times in my life when I've been most hurt could have all been avoided - or at least minimized greatly - if I'd thought to not make someone a priority who only makes me an option.
Maybe, if I'd heard the statement at other times in my life it wouldn't have spoken to me. Maybe it only speaks to me today, makes sense to me today, because I'm lucky enough to be married to a man who makes me a priority, just as I do him. I have a sound example against which to test the theory.
Or maybe the statement speaks to me because I'm wasting so much time on things I can't effect and that choice is preventing me from tending to those people whose lives I can effect. The people who really need and want me.
And to that end, I've written to you all and while I was doing so I've texted my cousin and had a long talk with my husband. Now I am going to stop spending my mental and emotional energy on an unknown woman whose life I cannot effect and go call my mother...

Lycanthrope Love (Suzanne Forster)

2010-02-23T08:27:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday afternoon we saw The Wolfman with Benicio Del Toro and Emily Blunt, two of my favorite actors. I was so looking forward to seeing them in this movie and had high hopes that it would be a breathtaking old-fashioned gothic romance, especially since I’d heard it was an homage to the classic Wolf Man with Lon Chaney.

Many of you may be familiar with the original and this one is very similar in storyline, but I’ll try not to give away anything crucial for those who haven’t seen it. Let me just say that the movie didn’t work for me overall, but there were many things I loved, including the darkly mysterious landscape and the hoary forests of the cursed English village of Blackmoor, where the story is set. In the original it was a Welch village, but the sense of foreboding is just as palpable and thanks to movie magic, the special effects in the Del Toro movie are really truly horrific. Actually, the movie was too a little gory for me, but I’m generally not a fan of the horror genre.

That said, I still felt something essential was missing in this movie and by the end, I’d figured out what it was. In the very last scene, the heroine is forced to make a life-or-death decision and as I watched it all play out, I realized that I wasn’t emotionally engaged. It wasn’t that I didn’t care how it ended, but I definitely didn’t care enough. I should have been on the edge of my seat, hoping for the right outcome. Instead, I was thinking out how little blood the hero/wolfman had on his face after the vicious fight he’d just had with another werewolf. Obviously, something about the movie hadn’t worked for me and that scene was the moment of truth.

Of course, being a writer and a fan of paranormal romance, I was compelled to figure it out. My dh, who loves horror movies, thought the problem was the story. He wanted a stronger, tighter plot with more tension, but for me, the lack of tension came from the characters and their back story. If I’d written the script, I would have done it as a love-against-impossible-odds scenario, where the hero and heroine had bonded as children, but they were never allowed to be together because of her obligation to marry the hero’s brother. It would have played out as a haunted star-crossed romance, where the sense of pre-destination was clear and both characters had been forever changed by the loss. For me, that depth of romantic conflict would have raised the stakes of the story enough to make the last scene harrowing in its honesty, yet hauntingly beautiful as well.

Instead, the Del Toro movie focused on the relationship between the hero and another werewolf—I won’t say who it was because that would spoil the surprise—and the two monsters’ battle for ascendency. Of course, I may be biased as a romance writer, but I felt that the filmmakers forgot that the movie was a romance until the end, where the heroine was suddenly called into action to resolve the crisis. For me it was too little too late. But I hasten to say that it’s still a great movie and well worth seeing. Del Toro more than does justice to the tragic monster and if you’re a fan of gothic ambience, you won’t be disappointed.

I suppose it’s the curse of romance writers to see the possibilities for romantic conflict even in stories where that isn’t necessarily the creator’s vision. Sometimes with just a few tweaks and a different emphasis, the promise of something wonderful could have been realized. But all is not lost I’ve discovered because even as we’re suffering through what might have been, the disappointment becomes our inspiration to go home and write a story where the promise is realized. It’s never actually occurred to me before, but now I’m wondering if bad romances might not be more inspiring than the good ones!

I’m sure romance writers aren’t the only ones who rewrite endings. Have you read any books or seen any movies where you knew just how you’d remake it, if you could? I recommend it as a creative exercise. You will find yourself involved in all kinds of interesting discussions--and you won’t feel nearly so bad about your lost afternoon.

Enjoy!
Suz

Grandma Katy (Anne Stuart)

2010-02-22T04:14:00.000-08:00

My mother-in-law died Sunday at 4:40 pm. Her name was Katy, and she was 93 years old, she had late stage Alzheimers and she'd been in the nursing home for seven years. it was was past time for her to let go, and now she has.

Katy was a pain in the butt like all MILs are. She was smart, annoying, loving, a good grandmother, and she liked me even though she instinctively distrusted all in-laws.

She was a tough lady, a hard-charging woman. She went to Mt. Holyoke, then got her MSW and went to work. She always made more money than her husband, and she was the alpha wolf of the family. That's one thing I've always blessed her for. I'm a very strong woman myself -- with an overwhelming personality that can charm some people but drive other people crazy. When I was late teens and early twenties boys and men were usually terrified of me, but not Richie. He'd grown up with an alpha woman and it didn't scare him.

He and I have a more equal marriage, but I thank Katy for a lot of it, even though she had her very naughty moments.

Like the time when my baby daughter, who we'd waited seven years for, was ready for her first taste of solid food (rice cereal). It happened when Katy and Arnold were visiting, and Richie had the camera out, baby Kate was in her bouncy seat, and the moment was set.
I made the rice cereal, and gave Kate her first taste. Then Grandma said"no, this is how you do it," grabbed the spoon out of my hand and proceeded to finish feeding her.
Ah, Grandma Katy.

But she was a champion stone skipper, a lover of opera, a tireless worker, a great friend, a beloved grandmother and the most annoying whistler. Everyone always says, when someone gets Alzheimers, that "she/he would have hated this." Katy would have hated it more than anyone -- she was always neat and trim, wore a girdle on summer vacation, and her highest compliment was that someone was "competent". As in "she's so competent."
Which made her physical and mental incompetence so tragic.
Never worry about me -- if I get Alzheimer's I expect to be singing and rocking. I'm not big on dignity so that part of it won't bother me.
It's a nasty, awful, tragic disease. Richie can't even remember his mother from before, though I think now that she's gone that will come back.

Anyway, Katy wasn't perfect, but she was good people. I'm happy she's finally been released from that prison of a body she's been stuck in so long, and I like to think of her skipping stones and whistling, wherever she is.

A Birthday of Note (Pat)

2010-02-20T01:00:00.000-08:00

My mom will be 100 next Saturday, February 27th.

She knows her birthday is coming up. She’s not quite sure when or which one it is, but we’re all trying to make a great occasion of it.

Her short term memory is not so good these days. She remembers the past, of being a child in North Dakota. She remembers some things about the Depression. She remembers her last home in Memphis and sometimes the one in Huntsville, Ala, where she lived many years with my dad.

She lived through a depression with my dad and was witness to so many changes. She was part of a major one. My dad was with the space agency during its early days, and she often accompanied him down to the Cape to witness the lift off of early NASA flights into space. She and my dad were a true love match that lasted nearly seventy years. I could believe, and write, romance because of them. Their love for one another never faltered and after his death at 92 she was a lost soul.

But she still cares about her clothes and her hair. After a session in the beauty shop at the Jewish Memphis Home, she very carefully instructs her CPA not to mess her hair.

She worries about her short term memory, about not being able to remember when my brother visits, or her grandchildren. At a Christmas gathering, she grew very frustrated because she didn’t know who everyone was. She can’t read any longer both because her eyes hurt now and the short term memory loss keeps her from recalling what she’s just read. But the large print Readers Digest helps. In truth it’s a Godsend.

Television’s hard too. Her hearing isn’t very good and it’s difficult for her to keep up with a fast moving plot. But she has truly enjoyed the Olympics this past week. She loved the opening ceremony. She was awed by the down hill skiing and the ice skating. She wonders at the snow boarders. Sometimes she wanders off to sleep and at others I'm not sure exactly how much she understands, but still, it often brings a smile to her face and that's enough.

She has always liked the Olympics, perhaps because my dad did. She and my dad always watched all that was available on television. It was standard operating procedure in my home. Every two years was non-stop Olympics for two weeks.

But still she’s failing. Sleeping more and more every day, eating little and remembering less and less. We almost lost her several times this past year which makes this birthday all the more meaningful.

In addition to enjoying the Olympics, she has had other good moments in the past week. It snowed, again, in Memphis. Through a huge window in her room, she watched a storm of snowflakes falling on a great oak tree outside. She watched the robins trying to figure out what was happening to their usually snowless world. And it gave her joy.

And then there was the February birthday bash Thursday where all residents with February birthdays were honored at a birthday party. The birthday ladies sit in the front row. I positioned her right in front of the entertainment -- a “Blues” trio of a piano player and two “horn men” – and darn if she didn’t flirt with the sax player. She didn’t stop smiling the entire time. That night, she still remembered the music.

We plan to start bringing balloons every day next week, starting on Monday, until she has six and then she will know it’s her birthday. And I’ve asked friends to send her a birthday card. She loves cards, fingers them over and over again, and one of my birthday presents to her will be a “shower of cards” from friends. If you would like to join in this project of love, her name and address are: Adelaide Potter@Memphis Jewish Home, 36 Bazeberry Road, 38018. I thank you in advance.

We are having a family birthday party next Saturday afternoon. Her two children, four grandchildren (and spouses) and several of her great grandchildren are coming. My sister in law is building a family tree of photos. After that there’s a puzzling over what to get her. She’s overflowing with candy. Books are out except for clever books of photos.

We will be sure to make it a special day. And I might be late in posting next week. I’ll wait until Sunday and try to include some photos with the help of Beth, niece #2.

In the meantime Mom and I will continue to watch the Olympics. I think one reason I enjoy them so much is the story behind the athletes, and I try to tell Mom those stories. The French figure skater who was abandoned on the streets in Brazil and adopted by a French couple. The speed skater who grew up with a single mother in south Chicago. The American woman skier who won a gold despite intense pain from a chin injury. There’s the skating couple that Suz mentioned in an earlier blog this week. It’s the personal stories that fascinate me far more than the skills they display.

I suppose it’s the story teller in me.

I think that’s the part of the Olympics Mom likes the best. The personal stories and then the smiles, the wide grins of accomplishment, the spontaneous joy in accomplishing something few people have.

Mom will be one of those people Saturday. She will have accomplished something few people have. Not, of course, anything so spectacular as an Olympian, but every bit as significant to her family. And now I hope to see that wide grin next Saturday when she’s honored by the family she and my dad created.

Cats I Have Loved (Lynn Kerstan)

2010-02-19T00:16:00.000-08:00

Today, I was forced to recycle a cat. After nine years, Tempus Fidgets' time had come. He was slowing down to the point of no return, and his sad decline has left an empty pace on my kitchen wall. I’ll miss his spunky grin and unashamed plumpness. But maybe now I’ll stop being late for everything.

The clock was an anomaly. Although a life-long cat person, I don’t scatter cat-related items around my living space. An actual cat makes the best decoration of all, and I’ve generally had one or two in residence since I was seven years old. But interesting cats of every sort draw my attention, like the ultra-confident Percy.

During the off season, this English housecat curls up on the couch and naps his way through the cool weather in Scarborough, a Yorkshire coastal town famous for its fair. But in summer, he likes to hang out at the Sea Life Centre, located nearly a mile north of town. And being a cat, he figures, “why walk when you can commute?”

So every nice day, Percy trots over to the railway station, hops aboard the train, and alights at the Centre. There he perches on a wall by the entrance and waits for the door to open so he can sneak inside with the paying visitors. First he stops by to visit the penguins, who don’t much like him, and then he settles down to watch the fish. According to the Centre’s general manager, "He's more well-behaved than some visitors sometimes. He never tries to get into any of our tanks, even though some have open tops, and we never have any problems with him."

When ready to leave, Percy returns to the wall and watches again for his chance to scamper through the door. He’s got the train schedule down pat, reports a railway guard familiar with the cat’s travels, and the passengers invariably enjoy his company.

I wish I knew how Percy’s peregrinations got started. His family says he’s remarkably independent, coming and going at will when the weather’s fine, but they seem as puzzled by his train trips as the rest of us. He’s been freeloading on the railway for more than five years now, so I just figure he’s found his bliss. Hey, Percy. Say meow to the penguins for Pat and Tara and me!

Then there are the lazy, good-for-nothing, gone-to-seed cats. This one appears to take after his owner, most likely a bachelor or a husband whose bliss is a beer and a flat-screen teevee.

I worked my way though high school and college at the San Diego Zoo and still spend a lot of time there. As you might guess, Cat Canyon is my favorite hangout, and the snow leopards (Everett and Anna) get most of my time. Back in the 70s, I was entranced by Peter Matthiessen’s account of a two-man Himalayan expedition through “the last enclave of pure Tibetan culture” with the goal of seeing a snow leopard in the wild.

They saw plenty of wildlife and evidence of snow leopards during their formidable trek, but the great cats eluded them. The story became instead a search for enlightenment, an exploration of mysticism, and to wide-eyed me, an introduction to an alien and splendid culture. Every time I visit our caged-but-apparently-contented snow leopards, my mind starts whirling with strange thoughts and heightened awareness. Hmmm. Maybe it’s time for another read of The Snow Leopard.

Being overly fond of creature comforts, I'm naturally drawn to the Masters of the Game. Cats can get comfortable in, on, or under just about anything.

And this one is a music lover! Note to self: It's been nearly a year since you resolved to start playing the guitar again ("playing" used in its loosest, most non-artistic sense). So, get to it! Maybe I will . . . right after cocktail hour.

Wait just a minute here!
Aren't you forgetting someone? There had better be a sequel about cats you love, starring moi.
And if that cocktail involves shrimp, I demand my share!

Watch this video! (Maggie)

2010-02-18T06:51:00.000-08:00

I have an emergency brainstorming session today, and am running out the door, but first, I want to share this. It says more than I could blog this morning anyway, and it's dead on target!

Enjoy! And we'll discuss it next week.