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May 29, 2010

I make friends easily. Ninety-four percent of the time, I really like people. I’m chatty, free with compliments, and generally cheerful. If you’re standing next to me in line, chances are I’ll talk to you, tell you I like your hair/kids/shirt. You’ll like me, I promise! I’m a middle child, see…constantly need to win approval.

So a few days ago I was sitting on the train, ready to make a new pal. But the man next to me was tired, and despite the fact that I told him I liked his watch, he fell asleep. The guy across from me did ask if I needed help with my luggage, to which I replied, “Oh, that’s okay. I’m a big strong lass.” He was not charmed. (But come on…me? Need help with an overnight bag? I don’t think so.) Two strikes, no new friends. And I looked cute and everything…little white dress, normal looking hair, nothing stuck in my teeth.

People were engrossed in their music, their phones, their books (bless them…gotta love readers, of course). And I had a book and a phone and an iPod, too. I just wanted a new friend. I would not be denied. I turned around and looked at the woman behind me. She seemed ripe for the picking. “Hi,” I said. “Going to New York?” The train only went to New York, so this was fairly obvious. “Mm,” she replied, then texted someone. Strange, needy person wants 2 chat. So annoying.

Strike three. I understood. But still. Once, when my daughter was four, we were at a flea market and a little girl about the same age just came up and took her hand. “Want to be friends?” she asked. “Sure!” my daughter replied. And they were friends, just like that.

My kind of pal.

Authoring vs. Writing

May 23, 2010

For the past month or so, I’ve been doing a lot of authoring. This is when I give a talk or workshop or a signing. These events, I’ll admit, can be a little tough. I tend to obsess over what to say; I spend a lot of time on workshops and talks and try to make them entertaining. My daughter advises me on what to wear. I put on make up. Wear trashy shoes.

It’s an odd dichotomy — the author vs. the writer. As a writer, I’m alone a lot. Sometimes I’m so deep in my book that I don’t see my hubby standing in front of me. I forget to eat sometimes, then, when my blood sugar crashes, I bolt into the kitchen and wolf something down in a matter of seconds, then rush back to my computer. In essence, I’m a dork, and I like it that way. I’ve always loved being alone.

But authoring up lets me do something that I can’t do on my porch or in the Pit of Despair, my fond name for my office. I get to meet you guys.

If you’ve ever come to a signing or a talk…thank you. Thank you! There is really no way to describe the surreal, humbling, amazing way that feels — someone like my book so much that she felt compelled to meet the author. Wow. If you’ve ever written to me, thank you. I keep read them all, respond personally to them all, and keep them all (on the computer and a hard copy, too J). Even if you haven’t, if you just happened on this website and have read this far…thank you. Truly.

My new favorite place

May 16, 2010

McIrish and I just got back from Portsmouth, NH — the New Hampshire romance writers had a lovely conference there this year, and I was invited to give a workshop and a talk, which was a great honor and wicked fun besides. I spent most of Saturday in the hotel, as it typical at conferences; McIrish, on the other hand, had spent the day riding around the little city. When we met up for a drink that evening, his first words to me were, “I think we might have to move here.”

We loved Portsmouth! First of all, it has more restaurants per square mile than any other city in America. If that’s not reason enough to move, it’s flippin’ beautiful! All these old brick and clapboard buildings, shops and bookstores, the Piscataqua River (took me a few tries to get that one down), tiny parks and beautiful cemeteries…everything I love in a city.

Chances are great that I’ll set a book in a fictionalized Portsmouth one day very soon. In the meantime, I’ll sigh happily and dream about the day when we can go back.

Art for the sake of...something

May 8, 2010

My dear father was a printer; his company printed tons of coffee table books on art and photography and gorgeous places. He used to take me to Important Museums quite a bit. I remember one painting: a plain red square on a white canvas. Dear old dad, perhaps realizing his daughter was a troglodyte, tried to explain why it was hanging in such a prestigious museum. “It’s a statement,” he said. “No one’s done that before.”

“Yes, I can see why,” I replied with all the disdain my adolescent self could muster (a lot, in other words). Like Olivia the Pig in the Ian Falconer book, I knew I could do that in about five minutes — but why would I want to, you know? The next piece was a framed toilet seat. A real toilet seat. In a frame. In the Guggenheim (or MoMA, I can’t remember). I gave my dad another look, and he surrendered and took me to Bloomingdale’s (which I loved, by the way).

Art is like anything…if you don’t like it, it really doesn’t work. Same with wine…doesn’t matter how much it cost; if you don’t want to drink it, it’s not really worth anything. Food, too — I just don’t like sashimi, for example. This is unacceptable to a certain friend of mine, who’s convinced I can learn to love it, if only I can tame my gag reflex for a few weeks. “No,” I said gently. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I don’t eat food that makes me gag.” I don’t buy art that makes me roll my eyes. I don’t drink wine that burns my stomach. Troglodyte? Sorry, Dad. It does seem that way.

Crazy cute

May 1, 2010

My neighbors have a lovely pond, complete with small fish and turtles, leeches (if the rumors are true) and their own ducks. Migrating Canada geese grace the pond as well; it’s always such a thrill to hear them calling, or even better, to watch them land, the water churning behind them. Occasionally, a great blue hero or sand crane stops by and poses motionless, reflected in the clear morning water. Blackbirds clack and call, and in the early spring, the chorus of peepers is deafening.

The ducks are part of the neighborhood; countless children, including my own, have been carried or pushed in their strollers to the pond to offer the ducks bread or corn. Winter took its toll, I guess, and the ranks of the ducks thinned. And so Kathy ordered a dozen ducklings, and as soon as they came into our little post office, the staff called and told her to come get her special package — 17 of them, for some reason! We went to see them this afternoon. A little sea of swarming yellow in a wooden box on the back porch, so soft and funny, their rounded beaks opening as they peeped. Their eyes were bright little black dots, and their little feet were indescribably darling.

Before you know it, the ducklings will be ducks, their soft fuzz replaced with sleek white feathers, but for a few weeks, they’re ridiculously cute little yellow bits of fuzz, squeaking away, drinking and splashing and eating their food. Most baby animals are unfairly cute, but I think ducklings may have the market cornered.

My office

April 24, 2010

Here it is, gang…this is the place where I do a lot of my writing, sometimes referred to as the Pit of Despair. It’s in the cellar, it’s rather dark and sometimes chilly, but it does have a door (terribly important feature), a bowlful of chocolates and various and sundry pictures of Derek Jeter in action. The chair is very comfy, as Digger can attest. My desk was formerly my great-uncle’s workbench; it’s solid and large, excellent for copy editing. A cluster of antique bottles sits on the windowsill, a bookcase holds reference materials, books by friends and my kids’ art projects…a thick clay pinch pot painted yellow and red, a paper lobster, a yarn dream catcher. There’s a photo of my late father riding Jenny, my childhood horse; another of my brother, sister and me sitting in our parents’ bed when we were little; one of my hubby in his firefighting gear, holding our kids. One bulletin board holds photos and mementos of things that make me happy; another is dedicated to whichever book I’m currently writing. Right now, the latter is strewn with pictures of Glacier National Park and a little Jack Russell terrier (her name will be Coco), and a bookmark I picked up somewhere with the words “Happily Ever After.” 

I plan to move to a sunnier office in the not-too-distant future. That one has skylights and windows, a huge room with great view and even a sweet little kitchen where I can make a cuppa joe. It will be nice to see the trees again, but I’ll miss my little office in the cellar. It’s not terribly glamorous, but this is where I dreamed up Maloner the Loner and read The Secret Life of Lobsters for Catch of the Day; this is where my agent told me Just One of the Guys was perfect. I sat here and cried myself silly when writing the cemetery scene in The Next Best Thing, and when an RWA board member called to tell me Too Good To Be True was nominated for a RITA, I was sitting where Digger is now.

I guess it’s always been a lot more than a 10 x 10 room in the basement for me. J

Now that’s entertainment!

April 18, 2010

Of course, I love a great story…here are a few that I’ve seen or read lately.

The Wife’s Tale by Lori Lansens. This is a hypnotically fascinating story about a morbidly obese woman and the events that shake her out of her destructive routine. Such a lovely, sympathetically told book!

Breaking Bad. Remember the sweet dopey dad from Malcolm in the Middle? Hard to believe that Bryan Cranston played him as well as Walter White, the chemistry teacher/cancer patient turned meth-cooker. Such a fascinating show!

Napolean Dynamite. My whole family loves this movie, and there are lines that just slay us. “My lips hurt real bad!” for example, or “You’re going to the dance with that boy.” And Uncle Rico? So, so funny.

Nothing like a great story, in any format. J

Morning hath broken

April 10, 2010

This morning, I jerked awake, looked over at dear McIrish, who recently got a haircut, and yelped, “Who are you?” (We’ve been married for 18 years). Then, “Oh, it’s you! Thank goodness! I thought you were someone else. I was dreaming. I’m so glad you’re not someone else. You’re my only honey-bunny.”

Yes. I said “my only honey-bunny.” Someone, call Hallmark! In my defense, morning is not really my thing. I tend to blather incoherently (see above) or get out of bed and stare at the floor in confusion and sorrow. Slippers? They seem to be there right by my feet, but why can’t I get my feet in them? Do they hate me? They must. Or my children, who seemed so nice, are tricking me and have done something terrible to the slippers so that I can’t — oh, actually, there we go. Slippers on, check. What was I doing again? Waking up? Right. And why is this big hunk of fabric lying here? It’s not a blanket, it’s not a coat…it’s a…what do you call it? A sweatshirt. Oh. Right. With great difficulty, I pull it on and manage to stumble out of my bedroom, where I collapse into a chair, praying that McIrish will get up as well and pour me some coffee.

These days, the birdies start singing at 4:47. I’m convinced it’s because they hate me. I may be wrong about this, but you never know.

Stop. Look. Listen.

April 4, 2010

This weekend, my family and I went to Manhattan, my most favorite city on God’s green earth. We had dinner in the Village…that was about as far uptown as got. Wandered through SoHo and Tribeca, Battery Park and its lovely greenways. Bopped over to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens to sigh over the magnolias and cherry trees, inhale the soft scent of thousands of daffodils. Ate burgers and Italian ice. I put my writerly skills to good use — that is, I eavesdropped constantly. People-watched. Got nearly drunk at the beauty of the iron-fronted buildings of Tribeca, the brickwork, gargoyles. Stared in admiration at the well-dressed. Inhaled the warm, sweet smells of the bakeries, the dark rich scent of superior coffee.

This is my job, of course. To observe and record and try to transmit experiences into stories. I have to say, it’s the best part of my job…just looking. Listening. Taking it all in. I feel a bit sorry for the youth of today…well, not all the youth, but some of the youths. The ones who hold their cell phones in front of them, almost like pacifiers, unable to put them even as far as a pocket. I wanted to take them aside and share some of my age-granted wisdom. There’s something to be learned in the quiet spaces, I’d say. Drag your eyes off that irritating little screen and look up. Look at the people you’re already with. Look at that building! They don’t make them like that anymore. Listen to that baby laughing, isn’t that the best sound ever? Stop talking. Stop texting. Stop waiting for something better to come along via your tiny little phone and just…be. Don’t miss out on all this. This stuff is amazing. Every place has a story. Every person is fascinating. You won’t be sorry.

Of course, I’d probably get one of those withering glances that teenagers do so very well. Maybe a response… “Um…thanks? But you’re, like, so not my mother?” Still. I’d like to say it just the same.

Busy, happy times

March 29, 2010

I’m late with this, I know…it’s been a busy week! Last Thursday, I got the call all of us romance writers dream of getting — Too Good To Be True has been nominated for a Romance Writers of America RITA^© Award. Catch of the Day won in 2008, and the whole experience was absolutely thrilling. Plus, you know…I get to wear a gown. Then the day after the RITA finalists were announced, McIrish and I trundled off the brave the elements and visited Martha’s Vineyard in the snow and rain (not kidding). While he admired the engineering of the ferry, I huddled up above and pictured scenes from Titanic (not the romantic scenes, either, I assure you). But the island, where part of my latest book will be set, was gorgeous. The people were so nice, the food superb, and both of us fell in love with the place. Now I’m back with my kids and my doggy, three days of rain in the forecast and lots of great inspiration for the latest book.

Sunday driving

March 21, 2010

After a very long and cold winter with lots of snow and a few nor’easters, we were at last blessed with an absolutely stellar weekend, which put McIrish and me in a 1950s vibe. Loaded the kiddies into the car, visited my lovely and ancient grandfather, went to an antiques store and poked around. Then we took the back roads home. Went through a dairy farm and spotted the calving barn, which was irresistible, so we parked the car and got out. All the little calves came over to greet us, sweet little black and white faces. They licked our hands and we petted their noses and named the newest baby — Miles, if he was a boy, Iris if she was a girl. Continued on till we came to a lovely ice cream stand, got our treats and sat on an old wooden bench in the sunshine.

The simple pleasures are always sweetest, don’t you think? 

Voices in my head

March 13, 2010

One of the things I find very attractive in the opposite gender is voice. It’s one of the overlooked qualities, I think…how a person sounds. In romance writing, we often use a variety of verbs to convey voice — a man’s voice often rumbles. He may growl. Bark. Mutter. Purr. Grumble. Groan. Froow!

There are a couple of famous men who have really gorgeous voices. Russell Crowe. My friend Rose hates this guy…until he opens his mouth. Antonio Banderas does that for me (though I love many, many things about Antonio). Australian men in general seem to have great voices — Hugh Jackman, Mel Gibson, and sure, Russell. Max von Sydow (I’ll always love you, Max!). Clooney, though he’s too pretty for my taste, has a great voice. David Zayas plays Angel Batista on the show Dexter, which is like crack to me. Man, I love hearing him talk! Have fantasies about those soft Cuban Rs! Denzel…sigh! That guy could read the side effects panel on a prescription drug label, and it would be a turn-on.

I guess it's like anything...totally subjective. But come on. Which man would you want to call your name: Denzel, or the duck-voiced guy from Aflack? I rest my case.

Shopping

March 5, 2010

My friend and I spent a day shopping this week. It was wonderful! Girl power, baby! We both bought stuff, too…it wasn’t just a window-shopping excursion. She tried on dresses, I ogled shoes, we both bought sweaters and tops. I bought a skirt, she bought a dress. The sales staff everywhere was wonderful — “Let me know if I can help you,” they’d say in that conspiratorial, friendly way. It made me think about why women love shopping. Putting all my intellectual and deductive powers to use, I came to the conclusion that women love to shop because stuff is pretty, and we like pretty stuff. How’s that? But it is, and we do! The purses, the fabrics, the whimsical shoes and glittering jewelry…it’s fun to look at, touch, smell. Shopping is not just about acquiring new things — it’s about wandering around in beauty for a few hours.

Contrast this with McIrish’s favorite store — Home Depot. A chilly, dark, echoing warehouse where, much to my intense discomfort, the sales associates have been ordered to greet shoppers, over and over. The last time I accompanied McIrish, I was greeted no fewer than eleven times. In twenty minutes. There’s nothing pretty to look at in Home Depot. The light fixtures aren’t too bad, I guess. (“Hey, how are you!”). But an entire aisle of pipe? (Hi, how you doing?”) The plywood gallery? (“Hello!”) Plumbing? (“Hi there! How’s it going?”). Nails and screws. (“Hello! How are you?”)

Not quite the same as Nordstrom’s, where a wink and nod seem to suffice. Give me purses over power tools any day.

Going rogue

February 28, 2010

Recently, despite my being a generally good-natured middle child who follows rules faster than you can say, “Sit!” I seem to be staging a rebellion these days. Oh, yeah. I’m talking back. I’m getting an attitude. I’m off the reservation.

It’s my GPS system. We got it when we drove across country. And sure, it’s got a satellite and a computer and it was great when we were in the middle of the Black Hills of South Dakota. We were so fond of it that we named it…Houston, as in, Houston, we have a problem. But lately, I find myself disobeying Houston. Just because I can.

Left turn in…one mile. “I know. Pipe down.” Left turn in point 5 miles. “I said, I KNOW!” Approaching left turn. “Whatever.” Ding ding!

At this point, I simply refuse to turn. I know a faster way (maybe). Houston sighs. Calculating route.“Yeah, you calculate that route. You’re not the boss of me.” When possible, perform a legal U-turn. “And what if I don’t? Huh, Houston? What then? Really, what can you do? Nada.”

So, okay, going rogue may lose me some time, but sometimes, there’s a strange satisfaction in being dumb just for the sake of it.

Famous friends

February 21, 2010

Once, I dreamed that Tim Gunn and I were best friends, and I was at his fabulous apartment, helping him get ready for a party. He was wearing a suit, no surprise there. We laughed, we arranged, we hung out. I think Tim and I would really get along.  There are other celebrities I'd love to have as pals…Ellen Degeneres, for example. I mean, who wouldn’t love Ellen as a best friend? Drew Barrymore seems very nice. And Morgan Freeman. He’d make a great friend, you can just tell. Steve Carrell. Anne Hathaway.

Then there are the celebs who are just a bit too…I don’t know. Too famous? I can’t say I could ever get comfortable with Oprah, for example. Hangin’ with Oprah in jammies? Nah. I’ve seen her closet on TV. I couldn’t get past her shoe collection. Clint Eastwood is too talented on too many levels. The President is too imposing (though I think Michelle and I could be quite close).

Chances are, I’ll never become friends with Tim or Anne or Morgan. But sometimes I picture the uber-famous at home, flopping on the couch with a dog or two (preferably a mutt from a shelter), talking on the phone. “Hey, Mom,” my celeb might say. “I had a really poopy day,” to which the mom would say, “Well, that stinks, honey. But you’re still my little bunny.”

Makes them seem so nice and normal, doesn’t it?

Best & worst movie kisses

February 14, 2010

I saw a great movie kiss today in Wolfman. Benicio, if you ever want to kiss me, man, I am so ready! It got me thinking about those movie kisses that…er…stir things within me. The good stirring, and the icky stirring.

Cold Mountain. I think I may have conceived a baby watching this the first time.

East of Eden. James Dean. Ferris wheel. Enough said.

Viggo Mortensen and Liv Tyler, Return of the King. Oh, mommy! He thought she was dead! But she wasn’t! And he doesn’t know it until…he knows!

Brokeback Mountain. I don’t care that it was two men. The sorrow and desperation and love in that kiss makes me cry every time.

And now, the bad…(I won't show pictures, because who needs that visual?)

Groundhog Day. Bill Murray and Andie McDowell. Love the movie. The kiss...not so much.

Six Days, Seven Nights. Sorry, you two. Ick.

Entrapment. Old man, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Sure, the old man is Sean Connery, but since he’s old enough to be her GRANDFATHER, it bothered me.

But when a movie kiss is done right...sigh! Brings a smile to my face and the warm fuzzies to my heart.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The perfect pair

February 7, 2010

Once upon a time, the ghost of Levi Strauss was smiling upon me, and I found them — the perfect jeans. They were called Boyfriend Jeans from the Gap, they were cut at just the right height, colored the ideal blue, and they were long enough, which is tough, since I’m tall. They also lasted longer than any pair I’ve ever had. Add to this fact, my dear readers, that they were on clearance and cost me all of $7. I fell to my knees and gave thanks, knowing that this day would probably never be repeated.

My perfect pair has also spoiled me for all jeans since. Sure, there are other Boyfriend cuts out there…recently, I tried on a pair at American Eagle, only to find that their idea of my boyfriend and mine are very different. Then there’s the stretch denim — the jeans that fit great in the store, but two hours later, you’re tugging and pulling as they droop and sag. The jeans that shrink, the jeans that fray, the jeans that fade. I’ve tried every brand on God’s green earth. I hate skinny jeans because I think they look awful on anyone, regardless of body type. I don’t want jeans so low my hipbones are revealed, because I think that’s tacky (and I’m in my forties, come on!). I don’t want fad jeans — look at this woman with the criss-cross. She looks silly. If I were her mother or sister, I’d say, “Good Lord, take those off, you look like a drag queen!” I don’t want jeans that are pre-ripped, because I can do that all by myself, thank you. I just want a pair of straight-leg jeans that fit. Is that so much to ask?

I’ve spent so much money trying to imitate the Perfect Ones that I may as well have just brought the originals to a tailor and asked her to duplicate them. It would’ve cost less than all those other pairs of wanna-be’s. And here’s the thing. I still wear the Perfect Pair. Yes, they’re faded to near white now, and there are rips and tears in places that designers never intended, but they still fit me the best, and a well-fitting pair of jeans, as every woman knows, is really a gift.

Now, now kiddies…

January 30, 2010

So there we were, the kids and I, driving along one ordinary day, and the kids, being siblings, were bickering, and they weren’t really being horrible or anything, just the usual “No, I didn’t” / “Yes, you did” stuff, and rather than chastise them gently or remind them that they love each other or intervene and figure out who did what, I just let out a scream. Both kids leaped in their seats…then burst out laughing. “Do it again!” they said.

So. Someone should probably notify Dr. Spock on my amazing parenting skills…but…they did stop bickering. J

Nothing to fear but fear itself

January 23, 2010

As I may have mentioned in the past, I have a rather dopey phobia. I’m scared of birds. The smaller they are, the more they terrify me. I’m fine with geese and seagulls and hawks. But the smaller birds…robins and sparrows and chickadees…eep! Stay away! Hummingbirds? The worst. In nice weather, I like to work on my front porch. There’s a gorgeous lilac tree right nearby, and I have hanging baskets of trailing petunias…and a death match with the local hummingbirds. I’m sitting there, typing away, and then I hear that sickening hum… “Get out of here! Shoo! Get away!” I clutch my laptop and lurch out of my chair and leap for the door. My kids find this hilarious, heartless souls that they are. They also try to talk me out of my terror. “It’s not evil, Mommy! It’s darling!” Right. Then why am I clutching my chest, one beat away from a heart attack?

But I do feed the birds in the winter, because I may be a coward, but I’m a soft-hearted coward and I don’t want them to starve. So I have a few birdfeeders, and I go out there every couple of days, like so. First, I arm myself (a trashcan lid). Then, I warn my foes. “I’m coming. Stay back. I’ll feed you, but you stay away. Got it?” Then, I hasten out there and fill up the feeders as fast as possible. Heaven forbid that they fly down while I’m doing this, because I’ll scream and wave my shield around. Then I run back to the house, slam the door, and then watch, smiling, as the little beasties flutter up. See, I do like them. Just from a safe distance.

To sleep, perchance to dream...

January 16, 2010

Last night, the coolest thing happened. I dreamt about my latest book. By latest, I mean the one I’m working on right now. I've been pretty busy these days…The Next Best Thing comes out in just a couple weeks, so I'll be doing interviews and guest blogs and stuff like that…I’m expecting line edits for All I Ever Wanted any minute now…I still seem to be married and my children haven’t moved out yet (which is good, since they’re still too young to work, join the military, drive or even cook for themselves).

But last night, while I was sleeping, I dreamt about Nick and Harper. (See? A preview already, just for you). Nick looked like Robert Downey Jr. (squee!), and Harper was quite swoony over him (sigh!…wouldn't we all be?). Nice to know my subconscious is in love. I think it’s a good sign. I don’t have a title yet, and I’m still working on what’s going to happen and when, but I’m in love, baby, and I don't care who knows it!

It’s a really good feeling.

Advance copies

January 10, 2010

I got my advance copies of The Next Best Thing this week. Oh, it was glorious, seeing those books! I was literally jumping up and down, making weird squeaky noises. I’ve seen that manuscript so many times, you know? First on my computer screen, then when I print it out to read it in hard copy the first time…then again after I’ve revised it. After that, I see it for line edits, and I see again it for copy edits. I might see galleys or a PDF of the final copy, but to see it as a book…! A real book! It’s overwhelming. I get a little teary-eyed, hug my husband, and give him the first copy. This book is dedicated to my mom, so I called her up and said, “Come over! Right now! It’s important!” Pretty wonderful to see her read the dedication. My mom is the kind of person who has everything…but until The Next Best Thing, she never had a book dedicated to her. J

And, being a writer with an overactive imagination, I then think of my characters — in this case, Lucy and Ethan. I feel so proud of them, and kind of choked up…there they go, off into the world. These character have been with me for more than a year now, and even though they don’t really exist, I love them, and I love the little world I made for them, and I just love their story.

Hope you will, too.

Highlights of the last year

January 1, 2010

Happy New Year! And thanks once again for tuning in! Another year…hooray! 2009 had its ups and downs, as most years do, but one of my resolutions is to keep on with that relentless optimism that’s served me so well. So here are a few highlights of my year.

The Yankees won the World Series. Thanks, boys! Especially you, Jete. Love you, baby.

Too Good To Be True got an incredible response from readers and reviewers. We writers…we just never know how a book will be received. This one had me worried…would readers relate to a woman who’s pulling off a whopper of a lie? The answer was yes. Thank you!

I sang “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” on the balcony with the girls in the suite next door at the Romance Writers National Convention in Washington, D.C. Sometimes, life is just so dang fun you can’t really believe it’s yours. That was one of those moments for me.

I met my buddy Dee in the Big Apple. She came up from Virginia so we could have lunch together. She’s crazy that way. It was cold and rainy and wonderful, one of those days I’ll revisit in my mind again and again.

I wrote another book! All I Ever Wanted will come out this summer. Can't wait for you to see it!

I had one of the nicest-ever wedding anniversaries with my honey. The kids went to the neighbors’ house, McIrish and I got all dolled up and went out for a lovely dinner and yes, made googly eyes at each other all night long. J  

I hope 2010 will give you lots to smile about!

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