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!

Why, bless my soul! December 13, 2009 The other night, I went to see A Christmas Carol at a local high school. I’m not usually one of those who goes to high school productions for fun. Plus, it was my old high school, so there was that vaguely uncomfortable sense of being back at the scene of much adolescent angst and insecurity. But the kiddies and McIrish wanted to go, so I said sure, what the heck. Two hours later, I was struggling to contain my sobs as Bob Cratchit, clutching a little crutch, sobbed over the death of his son in Christmas Yet-to-Come. Tears streamed down my face, my daughter reached over and held my hand, and I fumbled for tissues in my vast yellow purse. Moments later, Scrooge declared “I will honor Christmas my heart, and try to keep it all the year! I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future… I say it on my knees, Jacob Marley, on my knees!” At this point, I was officially making a scene. Those ratcheting, poorly-suppressed sobs for which I am famous, the funny squeak in my throat when I cry, glasses fogging with tears, my daughter saying, “Poor Mommy, poor Mommy…” I’ve read A Christmas Carol probably a dozen times. Each year I watch the George C. Scott version, the Patrick Stewart version, the Muppet version and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Nevertheless, each time I see it or read it, the power of Charles Dickens’s story, first printed 166 years ago, takes my breath away. Whatever religion a person embraces (or doesn’t embrace), I think there’s always room to believe that love and selflessness can transform even the smallest, meanest heart. To quote another of my literary idols, Dr. Seuss, “…And then, the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches…plus two!” Gets me every time.

Let it snow! December 6, 2009 It snowed here last night. It wasn’t the first snow of the season…we had a snowfall in October, but it was the first snow of the holidays, and it was so beautiful, as you can see. The sun came through our little valley, turning the white-topped trees to gold, brave little birds swarmed the bird feeder, and my son and husband took a walk while I made pancakes. Later on, we put The Messiah on the stereo. We don’t have our tree yet, and we haven’t started decorating or baking, have barely put a dent in the shopping, but today, I’m feeling the love.

Superhero Me November 29, 2009 Once upon a time (last winter), my sister borrowed my brother’s generator. My brother was worried about how our sister would get the generator out of the pickup truck, where he’d loaded it for her. “Don’t worry,” said his wife. “Kristan’s there. She’s strong as a man.” I am! I’m as strong as a man. I’ll arm-wrestle to prove it. Once, my kids asked me if I could beat up their karate instructor. Sensei is about 35 years old, a third degree blackbelt with a body like the werewolf kid in New Moon (by the way, Bella, what were you thinking? Edward over Jake? Come on!) At any rate, I glanced briefly up at Sensei, then back at my kids. “Cake,” I answered. As in piece of. I fight dirty. I taught self defense. I know where to kick. And yes, I’m as strong as a man. Sensei has not yet taken me up on my offer to fight him, but I’m looking forward to it. My great strength was tested last weekend as I offered to help McIrish with some chores, as he is a workaholic and never stops. There was a pile of gravel on the driveway. "I'll move it," I said. "You do something fun." The pile looked to be about three wheelbarrows' worth of gravel. No big deal. What I immediately learned is that gravel is deceptive. Three wheelbarrows became ten. Ten became twenty. My arms started to feel gelatinous. My legs ached. Each time I pushed the wheelbarrow to the new area, the weight of the gravel threatened to tip the wheelbarrow over. The original pile didn’t seem to be shrinking. “There’s a lot more here than meets the eye,” I panted as my husband checked my progress. “True,” he agreed, then left to take our son on a hike. It took me about two and a half hours to move the entire pile. By the time I’d raked up every last little stone (I’m very thorough…Connecticut Yankee, remember?), I was dizzy, trembling, exhausted and self-pitying. “That was about two thousand pounds you moved,” McIrish told me as I collapsed into a chair. I perked up. “Two thousand pounds?” I asked. “A ton?” “Yep,” he answered. He knows me well. “I’m so awesome!” I said, immediately renewed. “You are,” he agreed. Then, perhaps knowing he’d get more work out of me now that I realized I’d moved a ton of rock, he gave me a kiss, rubbed my shoulders and reaffirmed (and re-reaffirmed, and re-re-reaffirmed) how wicked strong and superhero-esque was the woman he married. It was a happy day.

Why, bless my soul!

December 13, 2009

The other night, I went to see A Christmas Carol at a local high school. I’m not usually one of those who goes to high school productions for fun. Plus, it was my old high school, so there was that vaguely uncomfortable sense of being back at the scene of much adolescent angst and insecurity. But the kiddies and McIrish wanted to go, so I said sure, what the heck.

Two hours later, I was struggling to contain my sobs as Bob Cratchit, clutching a little crutch, sobbed over the death of his son in Christmas Yet-to-Come. Tears streamed down my face, my daughter reached over and held my hand, and I fumbled for tissues in my vast yellow purse. Moments later, Scrooge declared “I will honor Christmas my heart, and try to keep it all the year! I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future… I say it on my knees, Jacob Marley, on my knees!”

At this point, I was officially making a scene. Those ratcheting, poorly-suppressed sobs for which I am famous, the funny squeak in my throat when I cry, glasses fogging with tears, my daughter saying, “Poor Mommy, poor Mommy…”

I’ve read A Christmas Carol probably a dozen times. Each year I watch the George C. Scott version, the Patrick Stewart version, the Muppet version and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Nevertheless, each time I see it or read it, the power of Charles Dickens’s story, first printed 166 years ago, takes my breath away. Whatever religion a person embraces (or doesn’t embrace), I think there’s always room to believe that love and selflessness can transform even the smallest, meanest heart. To quote another of my literary idols, Dr. Seuss, “…And then, the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches…plus two!”

Gets me every time.

 

Let it snow!

December 6, 2009

It snowed here last night. It wasn’t the first snow of the season…we had a snowfall in October, but it was the first snow of the holidays, and it was so beautiful, as you can see. The sun came through our little valley, turning the white-topped trees to gold, brave little birds swarmed the bird feeder, and my son and husband took a walk while I made pancakes. Later on, we put The Messiah on the stereo. We don’t have our tree yet, and we haven’t started decorating or baking, have barely put a dent in the shopping, but today, I’m feeling the love. 

 

 

 

 

Superhero Me

November 29, 2009

Once upon a time (last winter), my sister borrowed my brother’s generator. My brother was worried about how our sister would get the generator out of the pickup truck, where he’d loaded it for her. “Don’t worry,” said his wife. “Kristan’s there. She’s strong as a man.”

I am! I’m as strong as a man. I’ll arm-wrestle to prove it. Once, my kids asked me if I could beat up their karate instructor. Sensei is about 35 years old, a third degree blackbelt with a body like the werewolf kid in New Moon (by the way, Bella, what were you thinking? Edward over Jake? Come on!) At any rate, I glanced briefly up at Sensei, then back at my kids. “Cake,” I answered. As in piece of. I fight dirty. I taught self defense. I know where to kick. And yes, I’m as strong as a man. Sensei has not yet taken me up on my offer to fight him, but I’m looking forward to it.

My great strength was tested last weekend as I offered to help McIrish with some chores, as he is a workaholic and never stops. There was a pile of gravel on the driveway. "I'll move it," I said. "You do something fun." The pile looked to be about three wheelbarrows' worth of gravel. No big deal.

What I immediately learned is that gravel is deceptive. Three wheelbarrows became ten. Ten became twenty. My arms started to feel gelatinous. My legs ached. Each time I pushed the wheelbarrow to the new area, the weight of the gravel threatened to tip the wheelbarrow over. The original pile didn’t seem to be shrinking. “There’s a lot more here than meets the eye,” I panted as my husband checked my progress. “True,” he agreed, then left to take our son on a hike.

It took me about two and a half hours to move the entire pile. By the time I’d raked up every last little stone (I’m very thorough…Connecticut Yankee, remember?), I was dizzy, trembling, exhausted and self-pitying.

“That was about two thousand pounds you moved,” McIrish told me as I collapsed into a chair.

I perked up. “Two thousand pounds?” I asked. “A ton?”

“Yep,” he answered. He knows me well.

“I’m so awesome!” I said, immediately renewed.

“You are,” he agreed. Then, perhaps knowing he’d get more work out of me now that I realized I’d moved a ton of rock, he gave me a kiss, rubbed my shoulders and reaffirmed (and re-reaffirmed, and re-re-reaffirmed) how wicked strong and superhero-esque was the woman he married.

It was a happy day.

 

People can be so annoying (hooray!).

November 22, 2009

One of the things we writerly folk do is pay attention to irritating people. This is called “fodder.” Once upon a time, I found annoying people sort of…annoying. Now, I love them deeply. This is because I’m a writer, and the people are no longer merely annoying. Now, they’re fodder. Often when McIrish and I go out, I see fodder. My attention wanders. “What now?” McIrish will ask with varying degrees of patience. “That woman,” I might answer. “She swoops when she talks, like a peregrine falcon. She’s a swooper!” Maybe it's the couple allegedly eating together, but in reality just texting other people. “Oh, looky,” I whispered cheerily. “They're having a lousy time!” Then I commit the details to memory for a scene.

Sometimes I exaggerate an encounter — I was at a Mardi Gras party a couple of years ago, and a guy was flirting with me. When I asked what he did for a living, he smiled proudly and said, “I’m an entertainer. A magician.” My response? “Thank you.” Magic Man, you may refer to Too Good To Be True  to see how you inspired me. You may not have set the table on fire, but you were enough.

 

The hap-happiest time of the year

November 15, 2009

I went to the mall the other day, and to my horror, I found Christmas in full swing. Christmas carols played over the speakers, making me increasingly edgy. It was Veteran’s Day. Sixty degrees out. I hadn’t even begun thinking about what kind of pies to bake for Thanksgiving, but I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus was already being forced into my brain. I turned to the closest human and said, “Christmas carols this early make my eyes bleed, you know?” She agreed. Santa was even in the building, and though I disapprove of Christmas too early, I did indeed lean way over the escalator railing to call out, “Hi, Santa! Remember me?” (He did, I’m proud to say.)

Early Christmas is bad enough for us shoppers, but how about the poor folks who work at the mall? They had some sort of countdown…100 days of Christmas or something. A hundred days? Imagine having to accessorize with Santa hats in September. Honestly, I think Amnesty International should be informed.

I love Christmas. So much! I really do! I look up at the sky on Christmas Eve and try to see that sleigh…I love midnight mass and Handel’s Messiah and the smell of pine. I love the cookies and the wrapping paper and the eggnog. Just not yet. Please. Not yet. For me, the season has to wait till after my son’s birthday in early December. Unless I see Santa Claus. Then all bets are off.

 

Sound tracks

November 8, 2009

When I was writing The Next Best Thing, I found a song that matched the conundrum of the hero and heroine just perfectly. I loved this song. It became The Song, if you know what I mean. I started playing it in the background when I wrote. I listened to it on my iPod as I ran. I listened to it as I revised, as I copy edited, as I wrote the epilogue my editor wanted. I listened to that song more than 1000 times. Crazy, right? Such is the life of the obsessive compulsive writer…

To honor The Song, I mention it in the book, very sneakily. You’ll have to pay attention. E-mail me if you figure it out. Maybe I’ll have a contest, even. But finding The Song was a bit addictive. I seem to have played a song by The Fray about 300 times while finishing up All I Ever Wanted…so I think I may have tapped into a muse, which is terribly exciting for me, as I’ve been museless all these years (unless you count Digger).

While I was driving recently, I heard a new song that would work magnificently for my latest work-in-progress. Alas, I couldn’t catch the title. I also didn’t remember any specific lyrics. But it was a great song, about someone doing whatever it took to stay with the one he loved. Guy singer, definitely on the rock side of pop. I emailed the radio station to ask if they could tell me what song was playing at 8:12 p.m. on Wednesday night — so far, they’ve ignored me. Their website has no playlist. This is killing me. I must find The Song! Must! Find! I cruise radio stations like a demon, irritating my spouse and children…let them suffer, I need this song!…If I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

 

Looking for a few good men

November 1, 2009

Having recently finished a manuscript, it’s time for me to once again find a new man. Time to find a face I love. This is one of the really fun parts of my job…ogling, baby! Not many of my heroes have been traditionally handsome — I guess Callahan O’Shea from Too Good To Be True was the best-looking. I always get a little bored reading a laundry list of good looks…his chiseled cheekbones, his full, sensual mouth, those burning black eyes (I always picture bruises rather than iris color on that last one).

I generally try to focus on just one or two features. Usually eyes, I guess…windows of the soul and all that. Ethan, the hero of The Next Best Thing, has a killer smile, and that’s what gets the heroine. Malone had those eyelashes, which Maggie called “unfair.” Trevor had hot-fudge eyes.

It’s always a little hard for me to let go of a book and the characters therein…like anyone suffering from a breakup, I try to distract myself, meet someone else, see if anyone strikes a spark. Gerard Butler’s voice gave me a happy feeling last week when he hosted Saturday Night Live (much of Mr. Butler gives me a happy feeling, but last week it was especially his voice). Sometimes it’s a gesture that catches me…I loved the way David Cook took his criticism on American Idol a couple of years ago. He had a very lovely nod, that boy. Made him seem wiser than his years. I’m rambling, I see, but it’s always more than looks, isn’t it? A good man is hard to find.

 

Curse of the English Major

October 25, 2009

When I started writing my latest book (All I Ever Wanted, due out next summer), I wanted to make the heroine profoundly dyslexic. I figured this would make an interesting conundrum; though she was very smart, my heroine would be used to missing what others saw easily. Cool, right?

What I found, however, was that my own brain is so saturated with reading that I couldn’t do it. Granted, my heroines have done lots of things that I haven’t…Chastity was a jock, Millie was a doctor. Grace was a Civil War reenactor, Lucy a widow, Maggie an identical twin. I’m none of those things, but I could imagine them. But to have a character who didn’t read…that I couldn’t pull off, no matter how many dyslexics I spoke with. My brain is the kind that collects words, and all my characters constantly reference literature, songs and speeches. To have a character who didn’t use that stockpile…It just wasn’t me.

This English-major habit of weaving the words of other writers into my vocabulary is largely unappreciated by McIrish. For example, if I look at the dinner I’ve just thrown together and whisper, “The horror, the horror,” he’ll say, “Oh, it’s not that bad,” without realizing that I’m quoting Joseph Conrad, which is really a shame, since it’s much funnier that way, upon which I’ll attempt to enlighten him, usually getting a very patient look or perhaps an eye-roll. If I’m starving and say, “As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again!” he says something like, “Easy, girl. There are Wheat Thins in the pantry.”

So I turn to my books as solace, in the hope that my readers will get my dorky jokes. In All I Ever Wanted, I reference the following writers: Jean-Paul Sartre, Homer, Joseph Conrad, the Bible, Billy Shakespeare, F. Scott FitzGerald, Miguel de Cervantes, C.S. Lewis, Gilbert & Sullivan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jane Austen, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Robert Frost. Probably a few more. Revenge of the nerd, baby!

 

Homage to some old friends

October 18, 2009

I'm not going to see Where the Wild Things Are. To me, the book was so perfect that even if the movie is great, I just don’t need to see it. My kids still love it when I read it aloud. It got me thinking about some of my favorite books from childhood, so I thought I’d share a few. I’m sure the names will be familiar.

Frog and Toad Are Friends by Arnold Lobel. I loved the odd little adventures these two had, their adult moods and worries.

The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss. While I did understand the moral of this story, what I really wanted was to see what was inside that star-belly machine. Because it just looked cool, know what I mean? The story was in the same anthology (in my version, anyway) as Pale Green Pants. Eep! Still scares me.

Mandy by Julie Edwards. Know Julie Edwards’s other name? It’s Julie Andrews. Yep. Mary Poppins wrote a book, and it’s wonderful.

The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken. Can’t tell you how many times I read this one. Simon was one of my earliest literary crushes. Who wouldn’t want to live in that cave?

Just listing those books puts a smile on my face. To the authors, dead or alive…thank you. Especially you, Dr. Seuss.

 

Bad dogs

October 12, 2009

If you’re reading this blog, you may have read my books, and if you have, you know how much I love bad date scenes and bad boyfriends. I’ve had a few humdingers…and yes, actually, they do show up here and there in my books. I didn’t date a whole lot before I met my dear McIrish, but apparently, I dated the right men…at least in terms of providing a springboard back into the misery of trying to find The One. There was the guy who sent his friend to break up with me, as he had just gotten engaged to someone else. Engaged! The one who told me he thought he was the best looking guy he’d ever seen. The one who hadn’t come out of the closet (for the record, he was a great boyfriend…on most fronts, that is). One guy told me I’d be so pretty if only my eyes were blue. Another one told me he didn’t like my parents, brother or sister. 

At the time, these guys would evoke confusion, shock, occasional misery and often disgust. Now, though, I’m kind of grateful. And you know…living well is the best revenge.

 

Ugly Baby

October 3, 2009

I’m always cold. My feet especially, and especially at night. Socks don’t help. Slippers don’t help. Socks and slippers simultaneously don’t help. Extra blankets…no help. But I just found something that does. An old-fashioned, red rubber hot water bottle. I fill it up at bedtime, put it down near my poor, ice-cold feet and bam! I’m in heaven. When I get up in the morning, my feet are still warm! I carry the hot water bottle around like a baby…it’s kind of the same size, and it’s nice and warm, and if you’re not careful, it leaks all over you, just like a baby. I’ve been calling it Ugly Baby, as in, “Have you kids seen Mommy’s Ugly Baby?” or “I love you, Ugly Baby.” My family is vaguely horrified at this new and fierce attachment, but I love my Ugly Baby! So cozy! So dependable! In order to get the children to accept their new faux-sibling, I drew a smiley face...see? Ugly Baby is now so cute!

I may need a few days off...perhaps not everyone bonds with a hot water bottle, but then again, you do have to admit…there’s nothing like warm feet.

Fair food

September 26, 2009

This weekend was my town’s big fair. Fairs are all about the food, don’t you think? Those big hot donuts first thing in the cold morning air, or a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich from the Benchwarmers, who raise money for town sports. The Lion’s Club has the best hot dogs…the Veterans have steamed cheeseburgers to die for. Then there are those onion rings, thin and hot and salty…oh, mommy! Someone call a cardiologist, quick! For dessert, there’s the World’s Best Sundae, and you know what? It really is! I think it’s the almonds. The kiddies, who aren’t old enough to appreciate the finer things in life, prefer sticky things like cotton candy and caramel apples.

One of my friends, who is much more concerned about ebola and stuff like that, hates to eat at the fair. Who knows what hygienic standards are employed, after all? I certainly don’t but, being of the “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” mentality, I have no such hangups and spend the weekend happily eating, watching horse pulls and chatting with a thousand or so of my townsfolk, and then eating some more.

Come Monday, it’s back to Cheerios and soy milk. But for now…I think I’ll have another donut.

 

Cleanliness is next to godliness...

September 20, 2009

I love to clean. I always have. I made my bed every day in college. I view ironing as relaxing as a day at the spa. My favorite household chore, though, is hanging out laundry. That’s when I’m really locked in, know what I mean?

I learned most of my household skills from my grandmother, who viewed housework as a moral battlefield. She always won (oh, and by the way, she is not the woman in the photo...don't want her to come back and haunt me). She could tell everything about a person by the state of their laundry. If your laundry was hanging on the line before 8 a.m., you were worth knowing. And not just hanging. Hanging by color, garment type and size. Extra points were given the lowest number of clothespins, because frugality was a virtue. I believe she kept a scorecard, but that might just be me.

During the holidays, I tend to start channeling my inner Hungarian washerwoman (házvezetőnő, say it with me). Again, Gram was a tough reference…to her, if you didn’t dust the pipes in your cellar, well, clearly you didn’t love the baby Jesus, did you? And so, each Christmas season sees me washing the linen tablecloths and napkins in lemon juice and bleach, which I then spend an entire day ironing. I wax the floors (yes, wax, you can still buy it). I wash the ceilings. I polish doorknobs. The kids ask me if I really think anyone will notice. My answer is that (A) I love baby Jesus and (B) I want Santa to see that I’m still on the ‘nice’ list.

Upon a recent visit to my basement office, one of my less organized friends reminded me of the quote, “A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind.” I answered “Oh, absolutely. I mean, this is where I come to play with my imaginary friends, so yes, that works for me.”

Well, I think the bathroom sink wants a little scrubbing. Back soon!

 

Man’s best friend

September 13, 2009

One of the things I just love about writing is finding the right pet for my heroine. In Fools Rush In, Millie’s Digger is my own dog, with a few details changed. Basically, he’s just the world’s happiest person, which seemed to fit Millie’s personality. Colonel in Catch of the Day was a more serious animal, perhaps to counterbalance my heroine’s goofiness. After all, if Maggie’s crushing on a priest and her love life is grist for the town joke mill, at least she can have a noble and gentle dog. In Just One of the Guys, Chastity says about Buttercup, “One look and I knew I had to have her, because it was clear no one else would.” Chastity’s good at befriending those who need it most, after all.

Too Good To Be True was the first time my heroine had a naughty dog. Grace tended to let those she loved walk all over her, including her dog, so Angus McFangus fit her perfectly. In The Next Best Thing, you’ll meet Fat Mikey, Lucy’s Mafia don of a cat. A cat worked for Lucy better than a dog…I’ll let you make your own judgments about why when the book comes out on February 1st.

Someone asked me in a recent interview if my choice to feature dogs was a gimmick to have cute covers. Nah. First of all, we authors don’t generally get to choose our covers. Secondly, I’m not clever enough to think of gimmicks. And thirdly, I think anyone who reads a book of mine knows one thing above all others…I really love dogs. Even as I write this, Digger and I are hiding out in my office downstairs, just him and me. Bestest buds.

 

 

 

Boom boom boom!

September 7, 2009

As has been quite honestly stated before, I believe in my inherent coolness, despite the thick evidence of outer geekiness. This duality is never more evident than when I’m driving and listening to the radio. “Oh!” I say to my children’s horror. “I love this song!” And then it begins. The singing. The enthusiasm. The head-bopping. It doesn’t matter what type of music…I have really eclectic taste, so it might Mozart’s Requiem, might be the Stones, might be U2 (or, as we refer to him in this house, Uncle Bono).

I have a great memory for lyrics, so I can usually sing at least a few bars of just about any song I’ve heard even once. And if not, I’m not above faking. “Billy Jean is not my mother! She’s just a girl, turns out I am so fun! The kid is in the sun! Hee hee!”

See, I love to sing. My talent (or lack thereof) doesn’t matter. I have enthusiasm! It’s that same element that makes me look so good on the dance floor (or so I imagine). I may not have coordination or grace, but I have commitment. And in the car, those pesky legs and feet o’ mine can’t get tangled, so I’m even better.

The kids put up with this by frantically scrabbling for their iPods and pretending to be adopted. But I think the moment and music should be shared, so I issue commands in between lyrics. “Everyone, sing! And head bop! Only losers don’t head bop!” My babies ignore me until I turn around and glare (while still head bopping, mind you). If this doesn’t work, I just sing louder. The more hip the song, the more pained their expressions. “Boom boom boom! Gotta get-get! Boom boom boom! Gotta get-get!” I bellow.

“Please don’t sing that in public. Ever,” my daughter might plead. 

“Get your head bopping, and I won’t!” I order.

“That man can see you,” my son might observe at a traffic light.

“I don’t care!” I say. In fact, chances are high that I’ll turn to the other driver and serenade him. “I'm so 3008, You so 2000 and late, I got that boom boom boom!” The fact that I’m a white suburban mom, usually wearing a cardigan and clogs, doesn’t bother me one bit.

Eventually, defeated and hopeless, the kids’ heads move fractionally in time to the beat. Good enough for me. This, you see, constitutes good old fashioned family fun. Whether they like it or not. And you know what? I think they like it. A little, anyway.

 

Happy new year!

August 31, 2009

Well, both my little dumplings are back in school as of this morning, and I have to say that, as much as I love them, and even as I get a bit choked up seeing them off, it’s a good feeling. September means that I can leave my basement office, which I fondly call the Pit of Despair, and go to my front porch, which is closer to the Portal of Heaven. The days have more structure, the house is magnificently quiet. Most of my cooking responsibilities are done before seven a.m. (boo-yah!), since McIrish cooks dinner more often than not. I’m very productive in the mornings…by seven a.m., I’ve made the kiddies a healthy breakfast and packed their lunches (complete with a cartoon of our pets drawn each morning on their napkins), done half my housework and have often even brushed my teeth. Once the kids get on the school bus, I take a walk or run, Digger trotting merrily beside me. I see more of the neighborhood and more of the neighbors, which is always a pleasure.

September is a beautiful month…still technically summer, but emotionally, the beginning of a season, rather than the end. I can see why so many people get married in September.  The coolness in the air, the turning leaves, the earlier nights all carry a sense of freshness and promise. Time to get to work, to start fresh, to see what lovely things this year holds.

 

 

The last gasp of summer

August 23, 2009

Well, the dog days of summer finally bit New England…for the past week, it’s been, in the words of my region, wicked hot. We were on the Cape, which lacks the deep, dark shade we have in Connecticut, and the sun beat down and baked our little house. Window fans failed to cool us, and we spent the long nights tossing and turning. The cicadas buzzed all day, and at night, we were serenaded by those churring insects (I call them the “new school shoes” bugs, because once they start singing, it’s time to go shopping). The humidity was relentless, but it didn’t rain — just this oppressive heaviness that made the furniture feel damp and wore us all out. The water of the kettle ponds felt silky and warm, and the breeze failed to do anything more than stir the soupy air.

The only way to truly cool down was to go swimming in the mighty Atlantic, which was a refreshing 62 degrees. Man! So cold it hurt your feet, but if you managed to survive the first few minutes, you became numb and didn’t mind. Though I fear ocean swimming, drowning and sharks — and despite the very credible report of a great white feeding on seals in Chatham — I went in and stayed in. Jumped over the surf and put my boogie board to good use. If I managed to catch a wave just right, I could ride it in for twenty yards or so (it was low tide), the white water churning beneath me as I hooted and hollered and laughed. My eyes stung from the salt, my skin was red from the cold, clots of seaweed decorated my hair, but it was worth it…that combination of exhilaration and terror, and the bittersweet knowledge that school starts soon, and summer is ending.

 

Home alone

August 16, 2009

For the next two days, I will be alone in my own house. This is not something that happens very often. Back in the olden days, McIrish would take the little ones to visit his parents…possibly overnight. Those days were magic, let me tell you. I’d crank the Springsteen and sing at the top of my lungs as I cleaned the house. That’s sad, don’t you think? I had time alone and I spent it cleaning.

These days, I tend to write when alone. There are many benefits to writing when alone in the house. I can speak all my dialogue out loud, and no one thinks I’m talking to him or her. I can cry as I write the sad parts, and no one thinks I’m mentally ill. I can even…oh, this is so embarrassing…I can even (sort of) act out the first kiss. No, no I don’t make out with my pillow (not anymore, at any rate). But I can say the words that precede the first kiss, imagine the loaded pause, the moving in…and then…and then…!

I try to reward myself when I’m home alone. Do things I don’t do when the kiddies are around. Get pad thai all for myself, for example. Stay up wicked late and watch scary movies. I like to eat late at night, too. I can (and do) dance to my favorite songs played so loud that the house shakes and the cat looks at me with utter contempt. This activity can make Digger so overcome with joy that he’s been known to jump right onto the kitchen table.

I’ve always been quite comfortable in my own company. I love my family of course, but I also love being alone. Not that I’m truly alone…I’m a writer, after all, and my imaginary friends are always with me. But still. You know what I mean. 

 

Extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm

August 10, 2009

You folks probably know I’m a baseball fan. If you don’t, my team is the New York Yankees. (I didn’t choose them…it’s in my DNA, so if you’re a Sox fan, please note I was given no choice in the matter. There are many great players on the Sox, and I still have a mild crush on Mark Bellhorn, so there you go.)

There’s something really strange about being a fan. It’s the notion that somehow you have the power to sway things to your team’s favor. For example, when the mighty Jeter comes to bat, I am incapable of keeping my mouth shut. “Come on, baby boy,” I say. “Do it for me, Jete. You know I love you.”  I hesitate to use the word hate, but I strongly dislike one Mr. Alex Rodriguez, despite the fact that he plays (for now) on the Yankees. I tend to taunt him when he comes up to the plate. “Try not to strike out this time, you big idiot,” I might say. “If we’re stuck with you, you might as well earn your keep.” Likewise, I try to plant seeds of doubt in the opposing team’s mind. “Strike out, Big Papi. Come on. Swing and a miss, you evil-doer, you.”

I learned about being a fan from my dear mother, who will say things like, “You know, I was holding the laundry basket when the last run scored…I’ll go downstairs and get it so they can score again.” But then again, this is the woman who owns six t-shirts, several pairs of earrings, socks, flags, street signs, blankets and statues in honor of her team. This is the woman who at age 16 crawled into a men’s club to kiss Billy Martin and who later dodged security guards to rip up a chunk of grass from center field because Mickey Mantle stood there.

The word “fan” derives from the word “fanatic.” Fanatic has a religious connotation in the original Latin and generally means “A person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm, as for a cause.” For those of us who talk to the TV, lean on our horns when our team scores and clutch laundry baskets so they can do it again, that sums it up perfectly.

 

True love

August 2, 2009 

As a romance writer, I obviously think about relationships more than most people. My brother-in-law, who is handsome and wonderful and kind, is single — something that crosses my mind many times a day as I ponder how to marry him off to one of my friends so I can have more nieces and nephews. An acquaintance of mine is thinking of divorcing her husband of one year. This fascinates me. Really? I think. Things have gone that far astray in just 12 months? Another friend chose not to marry the love of her life and ended up with another guy — a good man, a nice man, but not The One, if you know what I mean.

And then we have my grandparents. My grandmother died a year and a half ago. She and my grandfather had been married for 67 years. They met when Gram was 10 years old, and according to her, she knew right away that he was the man she’d marry. They never dated anyone else. They never kissed anyone else! She was 19 when they tied the knot. They lived through World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Persian Gulf War, Desert Storm and the current war. They lived through the baby boom, the Civil Rights Movement, the Space Race and Watergate. They raised nine children, had twenty-eight grandchildren and countless great-grandchildren.

Their life together spanned quite an age, but as a romance writer — and as a wife — what strikes me the most when I think of them is how they always held hands. How lovely to have had so many years together, and still automatically reach out to hold the hand of the one you love. I write about finding The One…but my grandparents showed me what happily ever after really means.

 

Favorite couples

July 27, 2009

I’m blatantly stealing this idea from Cindy Kirk, one of the other authors on Sisterhood of the Jaunty Quill, but since I’ve already admitted that all writers are thieves, I figured it was okay. Cindy talked about TV couples…I’m going to talk about just about any couple.

Chemistry is that mysterious ingredient in a relationship that matters most. Sometimes it starts off as blatant attraction, but lots of time, it starts off as irritation. Take, for example, one of the best on-screen couples ever: Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy. They really bug each other, which is why it’s such fun when they start circling the attraction between them.

Abby & Mike, The Ugly Truth. Okay, I’ll admit. I haven’t seen this movie yet (but I will, it’s right up my alley). Even in the trailers, you can see the fun between them. He’s everything she despises in a man, and yet he knows how men think and challenges her to let him help her get her man, then falls in love with her himself. Predictable? Absolutely. So what?

Scarlett & Rhett. Best chemistry ever, book or movie, hands-down winner. That kiss outside Atlanta could power a small nation. Hello!

Nicholas Brisbane & Lady Julia Grey, Silent in the Grave by Deanna Raybourn. This author doesn’t even show the couple kiss, and yet good Lord! The air crackles between them. If you haven’t read this book, do so as soon as possible! Talk about your tortured hero! Delicious! Suffer on, Brisbane!

As for my own books, my favorite couple varies. It’s hard to choose, but I’ll tell you — Maggie and Malone are special to me. If I had to name a favorite, it would be those two…but then again, I do love Lucy and Ethan in The Next Best Thing, and I’m sorry to say, you have to wait till February to read that. ;-)

 

All writers are thieves

July 20, 2009

I had the pleasure of driving down to Washington, D.C., this past week with a lovely author who shall remain nameless (Marie Force) and another writer buddy. The three of us knew each other well enough, but as we were stuck on the Jersey Turnpike for longer than humans should be allowed, we got to swapping stories. Without revealing too much personal information and taking liberty so as to protect the innocent (and not-so-innocent), our conversations went something like this…

    “So I walked in, and there they were, lying in bed, and my boyfriend was stroking her face and gazing at her with such an expression of love—”
    “Dibs!”

Or…

    “How was your weekend?”
    “Mixed. I went to my ex’s wedding.”
    “Dibs!”

(By the way, Marie, I called that one first!)

Because, let’s face it, all writers are thieves. Hopefully, not plagiarists (or Nora Roberts, operating on principal, has promised to hunt you down and, er, make you sorry). But we borrow, let’s be honest. From our own lives, from the lives of our friends and family, from eavesdropped conversations. My own worst date stories have been used magnificently in my books, changed and exaggerated, sure, but borrowed from my own life nonetheless. Family members have been the basis for several characters. I take note of everything — the happy couple who sat across from me on the train this Sunday, the magnificently flirty bellboy at my hotel — and file it all away. Moohahahaha!

Can’t say I didn’t warn you. ;-)

 

Romance Writers National Conference

July 14, 2009

Today I head off to Washington, D.C. for the Romance Writers of America National Conference. There will be about 2,000 writers at all levels of career, from the newbies who haven't yet finished a manuscript to the great Nora Roberts, world's best-selling author. It's a lot of fun, as you might imagine...put 2,000 people together...about 1,995 women and a few token males...and zounds, you're going to have a good time!

I'll try to post some pictures and namedrop shamelessly as the conference goes on...one of the coolest things is getting to meet some of the best authors in the business. At my first conference, I plunked my plate down next to a lady and introduced myself. She was Linda Lael Miller (squee!) and we had a lovely chat (she greatly admired my Clark Gable pocketbook, which is one of my most treasured possessions). Cindy Gerard is one of the nicest, funniest people I've ever met. Last year, I had lunch with the great Susan Mallery, who is a friend of a friend. Susan Elizabeth Phillips is, as you might guess, wicked funny. Sharon Sala...gracious and generous with her advice. Susan Andersen...great dancer! I have yet to meet Nora, but from all reports, she is down to earth and sharply hilarious.

So off I go to be an author and wear my author clothes and attend some workshops and shmooze with my agent and editor. Best of all, though, is meeting readers. Reminds us writer folk just why we do what we do.

Wish me luck!

 

St. McIrish

July 6, 2009

My husband came shopping with me today. This is proof of his undying love, because I needed everything from the ultra-expensive under eye moisturizer made from the dew on Mount Olympus (or something) to an evening bag (I had to explain what an evening bag was, because he’s a guy, after all, and all purses are the same to him) to a yellow shirt (but not too loud, not too “liver transplant” and not too slutty).

During our 2.55 hours at the mall, I also got underwear, shoes and gave into an impulse and got a really cute skirt I didn’t need. I tried on fourteen dresses and bought none; examined dozens of evening bags and bought none; continuously voiced my need for more pants and bought none; repeatedly fondled silver bracelets and bought none. Our conversations went something like this:

Me: What do you think of this one?

McIrish: It’s very pretty. You look great, hon.

Me: Don’t you think it’s too …? (Here you can insert any adjective…mine included frockish, boobalicious and woober-esque, which is a word I made up)

McIrish: You look great, hon. It’s very pretty.

Me: Really?

McIrish: Dress...great. You...pretty.

Me: Nah. It’s out. Let’s go to another store.

My husband is a saint. Not always, but tonight, most definitely. I think I’ll bake him a pie.

 

Cape Cod

June 22, 2009

I’m at the Cape this week with my family…heaven. The weather has a great impact on our vacations…There have been times when we’ve gone to the ocean to swim every day. Times when it was too hot to go to the beach, so we just sat around in the shade, reading and eating potato chips. Times when we hit the kettle ponds and fish, if it’s not too breezy or too warm or too late in the morning. Once, we weathered out a nor’easter…the wind was so fierce that the rain came sideways, and we couldn’t open our car doors.

There’s a movie theater up here that has rainy day matinees…I find that charming, for some reason. Lots of people head to Provincetown on cloudy days to shop and eat and people-watch. Truly, there’s no better place than P-town for people-watching. And dog-watching, of course. Chatham, Orleans, Wellfleet…all good for a nice stroll, some excellent food, gorgeous porches ornamented with hanging plants and flower boxes.

When the sun shines up here, we like to ride our bikes to a little beach on the bay. The pine needles are so fragrant in the sunshine, and we can catch a little honeysuckle scent as we cruise along on the conveniently flat Cape Cod Rail Trail. Before long, we hit the thick, briny smell of low tide on the bay side, and we’re almost there. The kids will catch tiny crabs, maybe a few mussels and clams. Horseshoe crabs lumber along, barnacles cling to the banks of sea grass, the waves lap at the shore and the water leaves rippling patterns in the sand.

Heaven.

 

Ten things about summer

June 15, 2009

On Friday, my kids are done with school, and summer begins. So below, in no particular order, are 10 of my favorite things about the next couple of months.

10. Baseball. On TV or even better, live. Majors, minors, little league…it’s all good.

9.  Lots of kids around. Friends, nieces, nephews, godchildren...I love having extra kids here.

8. Berry pie.

7. Watching my kids swim. Gosh, they have fun!

6. Birdsong. The birds wake me up at 4:17 each morning. For some reason, I don’t mind a bit.

5. Thunderstorms in the afternoon.

4. Iced coffee.

3. Ice cream from the tiny little stand in our town.

2. Reading. I tend to read more in the summer for some reason. It’s not that I have more time…it’s just that life seems more relaxed.

1. The smell of freshly cut grass.

Hope you have a great summer, too!

 

My Fan Girl Moment

June 6, 2009

Of course, I like to believe that I am extraordinarily cool, despite all evidence to the contrary. But I think that around celebrities, I’m pretty laid back. Last year, for example, McIrish and I helped Jennifer Lopez when the wheel of her baby stroller was caught. She said thanks, I said, “You’re welcome!” I didn't say, “Oh, my God, you are SO BEAUTIFUL!” or “Can I have an autograph and maybe one of these kids?” I can’t name a sports figure or movie star who’d really make me squealy. As you may know, I love Derek Jeter, but really because he just plays baseball so very well. (I’m serious. Mostly.)

But last week I had a squealy fan girl moment when, what to my wondering ears did appear, but an interview on NPR with Johnathan Hillstrand. Who is Johnathan Hillstrand? Why, he’s the captain of the Time Bandit on the Discovery Show Deadliest Catch, which follows several boats in the Alaskan crab fishing fleet. Johnathan was being interviewed, along with his brother Andy, but it was Johnathan’s gravelly voice and dirty laugh that had me grappling for the phone (sorry, Andy. You seem very nice, but…). I LOVE Deadliest Catch! I watch it every week and whine when it's not on. The chance to talk to Johnathan?“What’s the number, what’s the number?” I demanded of McIrish, who was home doing some construction work. “Stop hammering, I can’t hear, don’t you understand how important this is?!”

Turns out I was too chicken to call…I tend to babble when nervous, and maybe propose marriage…so I immediately reconsidered and sat down to compose an e-mail. What should I say? What would get the producers of Talk of the Nation, the show on which my Johnathan was speaking, to read my e-mail? Ah. I’m a romance writer! I popped that in the subject line  — romance writer ♥ crab fishermen —  and sure enough, Neil Conan, the host, read my note, the last one before the end of the show.

And guess what? In response to my line “I think you guys are the coolest cats ever,” Johnathan spoke to me! He said…and I quote… “Thank you.” But he said it in that gravelly, man-of-the-sea, works-hard-for-a-living, read-me-the-phonebook, just-don’t-stop-talking-voice. “Thank you.”

Squeee!

 

I ♥ NY

June 1, 2009

This past week, I had lunch with some of the really nice people at Harlequin. The New York offices are in the Woolworth Building, one of the more breathtaking old skyscrapers in the city. The lobby looks like a Byzantine church and were it not for a security guard who took her work very seriously, I would’ve gawked for hours. We had lunch at this lovely and apparently somewhat famous restaurant that was formerly a shoe factory. It was wicked cool. Anything old New York is fascinating to me.  I think McIrish and I are the only ones who really adore riding the subway. We gape out the windows at different stops… “Did you see that tile work? Beautiful!” McIrish is a walking New York encyclopedia, so I’m treated to lots of NYC trivia…for example, the symbol of the Astor family was the beaver, since they first started raking it in trading beaver pelts. Later in the day, we met with my agent, and she and my husband bonded over their mutual admiration for the New York public water system, which is one of the best in the world.

But here’s my little nugget of NYC information. If you’re looking for the best Italian food in the city, go down to the Village. Just off Washington Square Park is Thompson Street, and on Thompson Street is Porto Bello, a tiny restaurant where the waiters don’t speak English and the food is unbelievable. It’s our favorite place, so beloved that I featured it in Just One of the Guys. Make sure you order something with vodka sauce, okay? Buon appetito!

 

A few great books

May 25, 2009

I seem to be on a roll with books lately…the past three I’ve read have been just great, and although they’re very different, I figured I’d mention them, since people often ask me what I like to read.

Just Breathe by Susan Wiggs. I don’t think I’ve read an author who brings a place to life like Ms. Wiggs. This is the story of a woman who walks in on her husband with another woman and flees back to the hometown, where she’d always felt like a misfit. Beautifully and gently written, well rounded and believable characters make this book seem like a good friend. I had the privilege of meeting Susan at a conference last year, and she seemed just as down to earth, open and friendly as her books.

Nose Down, Eyes Up by Merrill Markoe. Edgy, hilarious and unflinchingly observant, this is the story of LA handyman and general slacker Gil, whose only meaningful relationships are with his four dogs. Ms. Markoe is one of the funniest and most creative writers I’ve ever read. If you’d like a taste of her voice, check out http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=339  

The Sweet In Between by Sheri Reynolds. Not a romance but a sad and lyrical story of a girl who’s desperately afraid to grow up. Though the subject matter is achingly grim, I couldn’t help but love the protagonist and her noble heart. Ms. Reynolds was one of those authors blessed by Oprah, and it’s clear why her books have done so well —she’s an amazing and fearless writer.

So if you’re looking for something to read, give these books a shot. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

 

The height of dorkiness

May 17, 2009

I am the height of dorkiness, I freely admit. Sure, I may have a slightly better haircut than when I was a kid, and my clothes are more stylish (thanks to my daughter), but in my heart of hearts, I’m a dork. This point was driven home last night as McIrish and I went to see “Star Trek.” Um…I loved it. And I have a crush on Mr. Spock. And when (teensy plot spoiler here) Leonard Nimoy made his cameo, I…er…got all choked up.

Reruns of the original TV series Star Trek played on Saturday nights when I was a kid. Saturday nights meant my parents were going out. Mom had hot rollers in her hair and was redoing her makeup, Dad was shaving and whistling, and the three little Higlets were, in the great American tradition, glued to the TV set, watching Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise kick some Klingon butt.

I went to see all of the big screen movies. I remember when the words “In memory of Gene Roddenbury” flashed during the credits just after the creator of the show died, and I burst into applause. Someone in the audience shouted, “Get a life!” (it was New York, so there you go), but I didn’t care. I was grateful for the man who’d invented the Saturday evening entertainment of my youth. And last night, I once again felt the old ticker thumping away, even though I was quite sure Captain Kirk would prevail yet again. Certain words still give me goosebumps: Space. The final frontier. Dorky? Absolutely. I embrace it. Live long and prosper, baby!

 

Little kids

May 11, 2009

My niece and nephew, ages almost 4 and almost 2, have been visiting for the past five days. I adore them. They’re easy-going, cheerful, lovely kids. They nap and sleep through the night. They eat heartily. laugh often and like to cuddle.

That being said, I’m dying here. Was it really so long ago that I was changing diapers and buckling car seats, pushing the double carriage up our 600 foot driveway? My back is one massive ache, my knees sound like Velcro being ripped apart every time I stand, and my left arm starts to tremble if I hold either of them for more than a few minutes. I’m falling apart! I’d forgotten just how physically demanding it is to take care of really small children.

But certain maternal things are ingrained. When the little one had such a full diaper that I had to scrape the poop off his back, I wasn’t even fazed. When he tasted spinach and didn’t like it, I held my hand in front of his mouth and said, “Go ahead, spit it out.” When my niece got dirty at the playground, I offered my jeans — the ones I was wearing — as a towel. Today, my husband couldn’t tell if our nephew had a poopy diaper, so what did I do? I sniffed the little guy’s bum as my own children screamed in horror. “Oh, please,” I said. “Do you this is the first bum I’ve sniffed?” For the record, it was poopy.

Tomorrow night, when my brother- and sister-in-law return from their trip and take my little sweethearts away, I admit that I will probably sleep better. My backache will fade. My floors won’t have sticky spots of spilled juice. But heck, I’m going to miss those sweet kids, their little heads sweaty after nap, the sticky little hands, those sweet, piping voices. I’m already plotting their return.

 

Authoring up

May 3, 2009

I was at a lovely writers’ conference this past weekend…the Connecticut Fiction Fest, which featured agent and editor pitching and panels, workshops, a book signing and cocktail party. It was so much fun. I gave a workshop, saw my editor, met some great people and, best of all, got to give out an award, as you can see.

Conferences are where we writers become authors. What’s the difference, you ask? A writer is, generally speaking, an insecure person with an overactive imagination who spends a lot of time alone. A writer may wear yoga pants and sweatshirts of indeterminate age. Talks aloud a lot. Has to be reminded to interact with flesh-and-blood humans and stop playing with imaginary friends.

An author…well, she’s the flip side of the coin. Authors are confident, outgoing and chipper. Authors give talks based on our writing experiences, encourage hopeful writers and sign books. Being an author is really, really fun.

Being a writer…much harder. But the writer, well…she’s the one who gets stuff done so Miss Author can go out and wear the nice clothes.

 

Return to the scene of the crime

April 26, 2009

This past week, I visited my high school — an all girls, Catholic high school — and gave a talk about being a writer. It was strange to be back…since graduation, I’ve only been there once or twice. As it first had when I was 14 years old, the school layout seemed huge and confusing. Once again, the girls seemed impossibly pretty and self-assured. Once again, the uniforms fascinated me. I saw some of my old teachers…funny, how little they’d changed. My former history teacher told me I looked exactly the same, which caused a little chagrin, since of course I’m incredibly sophisticated now (or not…but I must cling to some illusions).

High school was a happy place for me. I’ll be honest — not having boys around was a blessed relief. I wanted nothing to do with boys, as I was in love with Rhett Butler in those days (and still am, now that I think of it). A pimply adolescent was hardly in the same category. It was in high school that I first read a romance novel, and indeed, went on to control the black market on such books… “You want Woodiwiss? There’s a ten-day wait. How about a Johanna Lindsay?” And it was in high school that I got the first glimpse of the adult I’d become. How strange and wonderful to come full circle and return to the place where I first began to grow up, and where my love of romance novels was born.

 

Natural beauty

April 20, 2009

When I was a teenager, romance heroines all had one thing in common. They were all stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. Sapphire eyes, golden curls, cleavage that made men whimper. I used to imagine all those heroines in a ballroom somewhere. Who would be the prettiest? The raven-haired beauty with emerald eyes, or the stunner with the eyes as blue as the purest sky, a waterfall of fiery curls cascading to her waist?

I’ve always wanted to be a natural beauty. Haven’t we all? Flawless skin, 20/20 vision, reliable hair. Unfortunately, I’m not. Not bad, mind you…just not like that. In fact, now that I think of it, I don’t know anyone who is like that. I once saw an interview with Cindy Crawford where she said, “Even I don’t look like me.” (It was worth a try, Cindy.)

Instead, when called upon to be what I call “Full Battalion,” I have to invest a little time. Too much time, let’s be honest. More and more time as I get older. So I’m thinking there should be a new invention. I call it The Portal. A woman would step into The Portal, and within a very short amount of time, she’d be cleaned, exfoliated, dried and moisturized. Her legs would be shaved. Cuticles massaged, nails filed and buffed. Hair colored and highlighted. She’d rest her chin in a little tray, and boom! Makeup applied in one fell swoop, no more blending and brushing and dabbing. Hair would be styled  — no more bedhead, no frizz, no roots. The whole thing, I’m thinking, would take under five minutes.

Someone should really get to work on this. Then again, who wants to look perfect all the time? I always kind of liked Mia better when she was that frizzy-haired girl with big eyebrows. Before she was a princess, when she was one of us.

 

If I wasn’t a writer…

April 12, 2009

I love writing. Most of us writers do, of course. And before I wrote fiction, I wrote other things for a living. Advertising, public relations, research. I interned at a newspaper in college. (“Shlepped” is probably a more accurate job description, but officially, I was an intern.) I’ve been a nanny, a waitress, a maid — I think everyone should have those jobs as part of a national character-building program. I’ve been a clerk. Self defense instructor (I can so take down the bad guys!). A hotline counselor.

If I didn’t have the job I have now, I wouldn’t mind being a few other things…

A cake decorator. Works of art that taste good, too, celebrating the happiest times in life. Sweet job on so many levels.

Hair stylist. How gratifying to make people look nicer, feel better about themselves! Plus, people tell their hair stylists everything. You’re like a shrink and a hair stylist.

White water river guide. Not that I’ve ever been kayaking or white water rafting, mind you. It just seems so cool. I’m not really outdoorsy, to tell you the truth, but if I were a white water river guide, that would change, right?

Stable hand. I love horses. Most women do, I think. I had a horse growing up…Jenny. Some of my happiest memories in life are of being in our shady barn, the smell of wood and Jenny and sweet feed and hay. Mucking out stalls has a humble appeal to me.

My kids like to talk about what they want to do when they grow up. My daughter says a neonatologist, a spy or a florist. My son is leaning toward pastry chef, President or obstetrician. I like that they’re keeping their options open. You never know, after all, what opportunities life will give you.

 

 

One of the nicer parts of research

April 5, 2009

This past weekend, McIrish and I donned our duck boots (thank you, L.L. Bean!) and headed north to the Northeast Kingdom section of Vermont, where my sixth book will be set. We stayed in St. Johnsbury, a small city surrounded by rivers, hills and chock full of gorgeous Victorian architecture. We also dropped in on Barre, Montpelier, Putney, White River Junction and Brattleboro. Vermont cities are not very big; one can see pretty much everything in a day.

There are a few things Vermont cities seem to have in common...senseless, twisting streets; beautiful brickwork; rivers; friendly teenagers; and a native tendency to park on sidewalks. Oh, and fantastic food. Which was a relief, because you can't really have a fun weekend away without great meals.

The real thrill of Vermont, of course, is the scenery...the rushing rivers, covered bridges, the lonely, lovely hills of pine and pasture. The cows. The wild turkeys. The quiet. Vermont is quiet, after all. I heard an out-of-towner ask a local, "What do you do up here?" The Vermonter answered with a smile, "Whatever I want."

 

Writers' Day Out

March 29, 2009

This past weekend, the New England chapter of Romance Writers of America held its annual conference. There were about 200 of us there, from all levels of the publishing world...best-selling authors who've written more than 70 books, hopeful newbies who have yet to finish their first. This picture is me with author Marie Force. We refer to ourselves as twins with different mothers, since we have a freakish number of things in common.

I love conferences. My daughter picks out my author clothes (it's a special section in my closet). I wear high heels and makeup and work at making my hair come out right. I love listening to the goddesses of romance -- last year, Susan Wiggs spoke, and boy, she's just so wonderful and funny and down-to-earth. This year, Jennifer Greene was the guest. She was so nice and so honest. Jessica Andersen, the first published author I ever met, gave the luncheon keynote, and she based her talk around what she learned from her cats, her dogs and her horses. She was a riot. Later on, I spent four hours in my friend's room, talking about everything from our first loves to funerals. Didn't go to bed until after two in the morning.

But now, back to the cave...my little basement office that's crowded with pictures of and by my kids, the old green striped chair that's so dang comfy. Back to my laptop, which is like a friend (I know, how pathetic). Back to my imaginary friends, invigorated and a little exhausted from a weekend with my writer buddies. It feels great.

 

Oh, the humanity

March 22, 2009

McIrish is quite brave, let’s get that right out in front. He’s a firefighter, after all. I’ve watched him run into a burning building and pull out an unconscious man, saving his life. He has picked up a severed arm at an accident scene, calmed countless distraught people whose cars have flipped, crashed or caught fire. He’s been hurt, burned, cut, bruised and battered in the line of duty as well as in ordinary life.

But give him a cold, and he’s a complete and total weenie. First comes the denial…I can’t believe I caught a cold! Jeesh! A cold? Why? Why? Then, the disbelief and details. My head is all stuffed up. I’ve been sneezing and coughing…I don’t understand! Let’s not forget the sound effects…a man, I’ve learned, is incapable of sneezing without an accompanying groan. Achoo! …Eeeegghhhh. Unnnnn. Coughcoughcough. (Heavy sigh). McIrish also insists on dozing in the living room in full misery. When I suggest that he lie down in our bedroom so as to remove his sorry carcass from the household, avoid spreading germs and possibly rest, he refuses. I’m not really tired. I can’t sleep. Then he falls into a coma, snoring wetly, waking only to grumble that the rest of us are too loud.

He’s also incapable of accepting that this cold will pass. Life, he believes, has changed forever. We should invest in Kleenex. Maybe sleep in separate bedrooms (at this point, I’m all for it). Would I be so kind as to stock up on cold medicine, as we only have two quarts of Nyquil left?

By Day 3, he usually senses a change in the Force if you will. While for two days I’ve been pretty wonderful, fetching the super-soft lotion-imbued tissues and bowls of hot soup, telling the kiddies to be quiet so Daddy can sleep and making him soothing cups of tea, the jig is now up. Perhaps the cupboards are closed with a little more vigor. I may be folding the laundry with sharp, almost violent movements. Maybe my aura turns black and tarry. And suddenly, magically, McIrish does get better. Maybe it’s the vision of me approaching with a down pillow and a certain look in my eye. Maybe the cold has just run its course. We’ll never know. 

 

Frequently abused words

March 15, 2009

My mom is an editor, which means my brother, sister and I grew up sounding a little different from the other kids. “For whom is that gum, Mommy?” Sure, we got knocked around on the playground once in a while, but our grammar was flawless.

I pity McIrish, because when we’re watching TV and a newscaster slips, I shoot upright, quivering with righteous indignation, and for the next ten minutes or so, I voice my sorrow that not all mothers instilled such a finely honed sense of language as did my own. And so, in the interest of general edification of the world (and because I can’t think of anything else to write about today), I figured I’d assemble a list of words that are often misused.

Bemused. Bemused does not mean amused. Bemused means to cause bewilderment or confusion; to be lost in thought. She stared out at the rain, bemused by his odd statement. Could it be true? Langley was her lost brother?

Irregardless. Sorry. Not a word. The correct word is “regardless.” Regardless of Yoda's warning, Luke went into the cave, ill-prepared to face his greatest fear.

Supposably. If supposedly and probably had a baby, they might name it “supposably,” but as far as the English language is concerned…no. The correct word is supposedly. Supposedly, A-Rod has stopped using steroids, but who really cares? His record is tainted forever.

For all intensive purposes. The actual phrase is for all intents and purposes. I actually never knew this until I read Julia Quinn. Thanks, Julia! It means the case is closed, basically. For all intents and purposes, they’re already married. They’re not married, but they might as well be.

Reoccuring. Gah! Not a word. Recurring means happening over and over. I have a recurring nightmare that everyone pronounces “nuclear” in the style of former President Bush.

Exspresso. It’s not formerly spresso…it’s espresso. No ‘x’ in there. The punishment for ordering a shot of ex-presso in Starbucks is the undying contempt of the barista.

Eck-cetera. Nope. It’s et cetera. Et from the Latin for and; cetera meaning other things. This is really just a mispronunciation issue, but I figured it was worth mentioning.

There. I’m done. Off the soapbox. Time to vacuum.

 

The sweetest weekend of the year

March 8, 2009

This past weekend, we made maple syrup. It’s a tradition…my husband, who was more like Bono when we first met, has morphed into L.L. Bean over the years. A couple of weeks ago, he and the kids tapped the trees, and we’ve been emptying the sap buckets into a giant bin in the barn using the kids’ wagon to carry the buckets. Yesterday, McIrish started a fire in our humble little outdoor stove, and the boiling began.

It takes 40 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup, which may explain why syrup is so expensive. And it takes time for all that water to evaporate. We add sap to the evaporating pan, stoke the fire…and sit. We do a lot of sitting, which is the best part of maple sugaring. A few camp chairs, the old radio from the barn, the dogs running around, the cats sleeping on the log pile. This year, my mom, two of my aunts, my uncle and my 91-year-old grandfather came over to watch, to have a beer and a hotdog, to sit around the fire.

It’s one of the loveliest things we do as a family…staying close to the stove, chatting, listening to NPR. I’m always cold, so I sit as close to the stove as I can without catching fire. This year, McIrish deemed the kids old enough to have pocket knives, so they sat around the fire and learned how to whittle. Our son made spears; our daughter made a peacock. And that’s all we do, all weekend…just sit, add sap, throw on a few logs, talk, eat.

At some point, when the sap has boiled down enough, we bring it inside and boil it on the stove, and fragrant steam fills the house. By the end of Sunday night, the sap has become syrup. McIrish pours us each a shot glass of the hot, golden liquid, and just on this night, we drink it. For the rest of the year, we’ll pour it on French toast, waffles and pancakes, but on this weekend, we drink it. Seems like a good way to mark the end of one of our favorite things to do.

 

The heartbreak storm

March 1, 2008

We’re currently in what I call a “heartbreak” storm. You know. The snow and ice had just melted…honestly, yesterday was the first day where there was no ice anywhere I could see. The mud was nice and squishy, maybe a slight red blush tipped the trees with the promise of buds (or not, it might’ve just been hallucinations brought on by all these weeks of looking out at the white landscape, but still). McIrish tapped the maples last week, and we set up the outside stove so we could do a boil. I may have even seen something pale and green coming up under the bench in the back garden.

And then…the first inklings of a “weather event.” As we live in Connecticut, (which I believe is Native American for “land of the hyperventilating meteorologist”), we didn’t pay much attention. But then, the warnings signs from nature. The overzealous birds at the feeder yesterday. The pinkish tinge to the sky last night. A lot of wind. No good movies left at the library.

So now it’s snowing, and while I am a true Yankee and enjoy weather, I would’ve liked a nor’easter instead of a snow storm right about now. Another snow day for the kids tomorrow, that seems certain. Snow days in our house mean I bake chocolate chip cookies and make cocoa while McIrish plows. We’ll play Monopoly and Scrabble. It will be fun, sure it will. Sigh.

Even if it seems a little far away today, spring’s just around the corner. The time of apple blossoms and dogwood blooms, magnolias and tulips. I’ll be waiting.

 

Quiet time

February 22, 2009

Today, I had the chance to be in the house alone. McIrish brought his brother, who’d spent the weekend, to the train station, and the kids wanted another hour with their beloved uncle, so off they all went. I was left in the house. Alone. Did I mention that already? No one called. No one dropped by. No one spoke.

I read Isabel’s Bed by Elinor Lipman, one of my favorite books. I ate a brownie. I listened to the rain pattering on the roof, gurgling in the gutters. I didn’t do anything else.

A rainy afternoon with a good book is like a visit from a favorite friend. Just lovely.

 

Secret Talents

February 15, 2009

I have no secret talents. Okay, okay, I lie. I can make the neatest bed ever. Hospital corners that would make you weep. Pillows perfectly plumped. The blanket at the bottom? Folded in half with all the nap running in the same direction (until the evil kitten messes it up). But before that, we’re talking Martha Stewart, gang.

My sister excels at interior decorating. My sister-in-law is a gifted illustrator. My brother? Don’t get me started…he cooks, he builds furniture, he’s a potter, he’s a gardener, he plays the piano, he runs, he bikes, he really should be put down so I can stop feeling inferior.

I’m one of those people who’s “not bad” at a lot of things. I’m a fair baker…my garden is pretty enough. I try really hard to be a great mom — stories and hugs and help with homework. I can carry a tune. I can whistle really loud.

Recently, my friend and I were talking, and I admitted to not feeling like a really creative person. “Hello?” she said. “You write books, dummy.” (Friends are so great, aren’t they?) But I look at people who know how to wear a scarf or who can whip up dinner from a garlic clove and a jar of olives…now that’s creative. Me? No. Let me put it this way: my daughter picks out my clothes.

If we lived in a post-apocalyptic world and people were picked because of their skills or talents, I always imagine saying, “Well, I write a really funny ‘bad date’ scene…no? No use for that? How about my chocolate chip cookies? No? It’s okay. I’ll stay here in the nuclear winter. I understand.”

Hopefully, that day will never come. And in the meantime, I’ll get to work on another bad date scene. Stick with my strengths.

 

 

Home is where the flopping is

February 8, 2009

I was looking through a decorating magazine the other day, and something strange occurred to me. Though I admired many of the rooms shown, from kitchens to bathrooms, there wasn’t one place depicted in the entire magazine that I’d want to live.

A lot of those rooms were just beautiful, and while I admired them, I kept thinking, “How the heck are you going to dust all those little bottles?” or “Yikes! Imagine getting spaghetti sauce out of that!” Some of these rooms were sleek and elegant; others were crowded with antiques. Every room was meant to impress, understandably — this was a decorating magazine, after all. But none of the rooms struck me as particularly homey. Which was odd, since they were all in someone’s home, of course. But I kept wondering where you’d flop, because in my opinion, if you can’t flop, you’re not really home.

Our home doesn’t really have one particular look. There’s a front porch (hooray!), a big mud room, a tin ceiling in our kitchen. Our furniture is soft, the angles softened by years of kids jumping and grownups snuggling. We need to paint over the smudge marks from little hands, and the floors are scuffed here and there from the time we dragged out the piano to find a stuffed animal or decided to move all the furniture so we could have more room for a teepee one snowy February week. While it’s not a particularly sophisticated house, it’s definitely a place for flopping.

Say you spill coffee in my house. No one’s going to have kittens. It’s all been done before.

 

Out of the mouths of babes comes...well...not wisdom exactly...

January 29, 2009

I was driving my daughter to karate the other day, singing along with the radio, and the dear child said, "Mommy? How old do you have to be to try out for American Idol?" I told her I believed the age was 16. She said, "No, I mean could you audition for the show? Because your voice is so pretty. You're young enough, aren't you?"

Aren't kids wonderful? How I love being a mother, especially in that moment! My kids are smart and wonderful...and naive...and apparently vision and hearing impaired, but hey! Who cares? My voice is not that pretty, nor am I under the age of 30, which I believe is the cut-off for that particular show. I mean, I can carry a tune. I have sung in public (in church and once in a karaoke bar in Japan, Born to Run, a very enthusiastic version). But even if I injected a little Botox and dressed in some age-inappropriate clothing and somehow auditioned in front of Simon, Randy and Paula, it's fair to say I would not be getting that yellow sheet of paper that sends contestants on to Hollywood.

But my child thinks differently. I'm just going to let that one ride for a while.

 

 

In case of a water landing…

January 18, 2009

The words “in case of a water landing” have always been something of a joke. Until Thursday, “in case of water landing” has usually meant, “We hope you’ve made your peace with God.”

When one pictures a plane flying erratically over New York City, the images of 9/11 inevitably sear across our brains. Even when we knew everyone on Flight 1549 was safe, we couldn’t help picturing lost lives, the shock, the flames, the fear. What if one of the wings tipped, caught the water, and ripped off? How many passengers would’ve died? Drowned within sight of Manhattan? Frozen to death in the mighty river?

Instead, we witnessed a miracle. Captain Sullenberger’s grace under pressure saved 155 lives and quite likely many more. Imagine the steel nerves it took to utter that phrase — Brace for impact — to 155 souls who had entrusted their lives to you. Imagine realizing you couldn’t make the airport, taking a left, steering along the West Side Highway. Clearing the George Washington Bridge by less than 1000 feet. Landing — safely! — on the Hudson River as thousands of stunned New Yorkers watched in breathless fear, and then, in breathless awe.

Of course, there were other heroes that day. The valiant FDNY, the police, the Coast Guard. The flight attendants who opened the door and deployed the rafts. The copilot. The ferry captains.

But the story that touched me the most this day was perhaps the story least told. As anyone who reads my books knows, I love the story of the ordinary person who, because of love, becomes larger than life.

On Thursday, one man was in the back of the plane. Water was flooding in fast. Fearful that his waterlogged clothes would slow him down, terrified that he would drown while trapped in the plane, he stripped down to his underwear and swam up the aisle. When he emerged outside in the 17 degree weather, his fellow passengers, scared, stunned, wet and frigid, immediately gave him their clothes. They took off their clothes in that weather, and without hesitation, without forethought, they covered the freezing man.

Last Thursday, America worked as we all hope and believe it can, not just in training and preparedness, but in heart. Captain Sully, already an American icon, landed a plane on the Hudson River. All the passengers and crew, rescued within minutes. And the best of our country was seen by the world — the extraordinary heroism, kindness and generosity of the ordinary citizen.

 

It’s the thought that counts. Or so they hope.

January 11, 2009

Recently, JCPenney featured a hilarious video called “The Doghouse.” Our hero has made the fatal mistake of giving his wife a vacuum cleaner (“It’s dual bag. This is the best vacuum cleaner you’ll ever have, babe.”) and is promptly thrown in the doghouse, a prison where men who give bad gifts are sent to fold laundry and learn from a robotic female voice (“Help with the cooking. Apologize without caveats. Listen better.”)

Which brings me to some of the bad gifts in my family’s history.

A few years ago, I made the mistake of complaining that it was impossible for me to hang a picture, as finding a plain old hook in McIrish’s vast warehouse of nails, brads, screws and bolts was just too time-consuming. Under the tree on Christmas morning was my very own toolbox. “Isn’t it great?” he gushed. “And it’s red, too. Your favorite color!”

When my aunt turned 40, her husband gave her a blender. Not just that, he gave it to her at a huge surprise party, so she opened it in front of about 50 guests. As she looked inside the blender (for the plane tickets), then rifled through the discarded wrapping paper (for the plane tickets), then searched the card (for the plane tickets), my dear uncle happily pointed out the chop/grind/puree features.

But the worst present perhaps in the history of doghouse gifts was from my father to my mother. When we were tots, my dad was keen on camping. We had a tent, and this was back in the day of canvas, okay? My sister was still in diapers, and our rambunctious Irish Setter always accompanied us, so I think you can see that this was Dante’s fifth level of hell for my mother. While my dad and brother (the oldest) hiked and fished, while I happily put rocks into a bucket, my mother wrangled my sister, took us back and forth to the cement restrooms half a mile from our campsite, tried to keep track of the dog and cooked like a serving wench — dinner for five over an open fire.

In order to make life easier for his beloved, my dad gave Mom a most unusual gift for her birthday that year. It stood on metal legs and had a detachable plastic seat which clamped on over a bag. “See?” Dad said, innocent as a newborn kitten. “Now you don’t have to drag the kids all the way to the bathroom. They can just go right here, and then you just tie up the bag and…and …” His voice trailed off. Perhaps a small pang of terror hit his heart. No one remembers exactly what happened after that. I think I remember a white flash, sort of like when Voldemort kills Harry Potter’s parents.

My mother must have been gifted at doghouse training, because from then on, Dad presented her with black velvet boxes on  Christmas, their anniversary, Valentine’s Day, her birthday, Groundhog Day, Arbor Day, etc. Still, the words “camp toilet” can still make her eye twitch.

 

 

My New Year Resolutions

January 5, 2009

This year, I vow to…okay, hang on a sec, I don't want to pick anything too hard, something that I’ll cave on during the next month. So let's see here...things that are good for the soul nonetheless…

1. See more movies. Maybe I can write them off as business expenses.
2. Wander around New York City. That place is an architectural miracle and deserves to be worshipped.
3. Cook dinner once in a while and not act like I just ended the Mid-East conflict.
4. Wrestle with my children. It’s just fun. I do it a fair amount anyway, but I’m going to do it more.
5. Play the piano once a week. I’m not very good, but I can bang out a ditty or two. I can do it when I'm alone, so others don't have to suffer needlessly.
6. Be nicer to the Ninja warrior who pretends to our kitten, even though she enjoys slaying baby chipmunks right before my very eyes and doesn’t deserve it.

That’s it! Now the list is in writing, and people have seen it, and I’ll have to do it. Or not. Now I'm off to wrestle with the kids.

 

A rose by any other name

December 27, 2008

I’m starting to outline a new story, which is a really fun part of writing for me, when everything is fluid. I have the personalities and faces down for the hero and heroine, but one thing I don’t have yet is their names. And names are really important to me. I can easily be put off by a name. For example, right now I’m reading a historical where the heroine is named Aries, and every time my eyes hit that word, I stall. It just doesn’t seem to fit the time, no matter the author’s explanation.

I like what I consider to be “normal” names for my characters, names that are right for their ages. For example, I’d be hard-pressed to name a hero Caden, even though it’s one of the most popular boys’ names today. But there are very few 35-year-old men named Caden out there. Certain names carry implications, too…Tiffany, for example. Britney. Paris. Annie would be a spunky gal, not a fiercely intelligent D.A. Jake, a classic hero name in contemporary romance, is your basic charmer. Jake is not going to be a manipulative, cold-hearted baddie.  

Then there are those names that have become iconic. Luke for me will always be linked to Skywalker. Harry = Potter. Annie…orphan with difficult hair. Simon: mean Brit with great smile.

Thus far, my heroes have been named Sam, Malone, Trevor, Callahan and Ethan. I like all those names very much. (Malone’s my favorite.) For my new hero, I want a classic name, a little on the dark and brooding side. Something with some gravitas to it. I admit to being a bit stuck. It’s back to the baby names website for me. I’ll let you know how it goes. 

 

Ah, New England

December 16, 2008

I love New England weather, which is fortunate, since I live in New England. I could never live in San Diego, for example…I like the cold, I like autumn leaves, I like having to acknowledge that some things are just out of my control.

This past week, I went to the Cape to close our house. Brought Digger, two books, my laptop. Did a little Christmas shopping in Provincetown and Orleans. Mostly, though, I just enjoyed the weather. There was snow on the ground my first day there. The next day, it was 50 degrees and cloudy. Day Three had pelting rain and wind. Digger and I went to the beach on the first day, but it was so cold and the wind so punishing that, even with earmuffs and a hat, I could only stay a little while. At the Cape, the sky seems closer. The wind howls, our little house shakes, the chimney sings with each gust of wind, and the rain clatters against our storm windows.

Some of my fondest memories are of storms…the time we lost power for a week when I was a kid, and the whole family slept in the family room in front of the huge fireplace. The neighbors came over with their camp stove and made pancakes. The time it was so icy our dog got stuck in the valley behind our house. My brother slid down to rescue her, and my sister and I towed him up using our scarves. The nor’easter my husband and I slogged through when I was pregnant with our daughter. The record snowfalls when she was a baby, when I'd rock her in front of the window as the snow piled deeper and deeper.

As shown by the recent ice storm that hit the Northeast, it takes a hearty soul to live in New England, to battle the weather. It requires planning and resilience, a sense of humor and an acknowledgement that we’re not always the boss. Despite the hysterical yapping of most meteorologists and their desire to make every blip on the radar map an “event,” we Yankees have a wary fondness for big weather. Keeps us on our toes.

 

ʼTis the Season

December 7, 2009

Today I started Christmas shopping. As is my custom, I left my list at home. Lists are critical to my shopping excursions, since the second I enter a store, my mind empties in the terror of actually buying anything. There was a scene from a movie once where a Cold War-era Russian goes into a supermarket and gets so overwhelmed that he faints. I can totally relate. I don't faint, but I get a little sweaty. Today I went into a lovely kitchen supply store. McIrish is a great cook. Logic would imply that this would be a good place for me to shop. Instead I wandered through the shop, staring in confusion at the foreign kitchen gadgets, wondering if the plastic oven mitt really worked, if having a rubber-handled whisk would really change any lives, did people really buy chicken-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers, should I invest in a couple, etc. I left without buying anything, assuring myself that I had plenty of time.

Sometimes, gifts are easy...one year I gave McIrish a framed print of Grand Central Station. I have a bunch of godchildren, and I get them books (of course!). We always make a donation to Heifer International for my mom's gift, since she has everything. I like telling my mom that somewhere in South America, a goat bears her name. My brother and uncle like to exchange horrible gifts...a boxing nun puppet ("She fights for what's right!") or a Chia head plant.

My kids always ask me what my favorite present was when I was a kid, and much to their chagrin, I can't honestly remember. There was a stuffed duck that was awfully cute. A beautiful edition of A Christmas Carol when I was 10. My brother got a sled one year. But of course, despite Santa's wonderful gifties and the careful choices of parents, it's never really about the stuff, is it?

 

Being sick

December 1, 2009

I was sick this weekend and quite pathetic. A weak little bunny rabbit…dizzy, weak, hot, freezing, achy. I sneezed, I coughed, I couldn’t sleep, my face hurt. Even my hair hurt. It was freaky. I don’t often get sick…a cold here and there, but that’s about it. But this weekend, I was sick.

I had a wonderful time. Granted, I felt horrible, but I wasn’t so sick that I couldn’t crawl out of bed or had to have gruel spooned into my mouth…I was just legitimately, can’t-fold-the-laundry sick. I slumped in my chair, drinking water and tea, eating chocolate. Watched a few movies. Armageddon, X-Men, The Day After Tomorrow. Watched the New York Giants crush the Redskins (that Eli Manning is so cute!). My son drew me a picture and made me toast; my daughter fetched tissues and rubbed my feet. McIrish was conveniently at the firehouse, but he murmured comfortingly over the phone. My mom brought me some things from the store. The dog gazed at me with loving and sympathetic eyes. The cats, not so much. 

The thing about being a workaholic and a mother is that it’s tough to do nothing. Being sick forced me to do all those things normal people do on their days off. Got me to thinking that a day off now and then isn’t a bad idea. Of course, when I’m not battling the flu, that tends to feel like lazy (I’m a Connecticut Yankee…we tend to frown on leisure time). But I think I might just give it a try. Once in while. Not soon. But someday. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

That damn bird.

I am that cleverest of  women — the kind who has never cooked Thanksgiving dinner. (Thank you.) My mother loves Thanksgiving. It’s her holiday. She owns it. If one of her kids chooses to do something else that day, well, my mother doesn’t know what she’s done wrong.

Mom usually has at least a dozen people for dinner. Her record was 22. She enjoys letting her guests know just how miserable life has become in the long, hard days before the holiday. She tends to refer to the turkey as the damn bird and enjoys taunting guests with the hour at which she rose. “I had to get up at 4:30 this morning,” she might say, “to put the damn bird in the oven.” She also likes to describe the dry-heaves that accompany stuffing the damn bird.

Another tradition is for Mom to fret that she won’t have enough. “That damn bird is only 26 pounds,” she might lament. “And we’re having twelve people!” When we muse that most humans can’t eat two solid pounds of turkey in one sitting, she ignores us, manically peeling more potatoes. “Will fifteen pounds be
enough?” she’ll ask, shreds of potato skin flying through the air. “Quick, grab a few more.” Pounds, that is, not potatoes.

Mom makes the traditional Thanksgiving side dishes. Green bean casserole, the kind with the cream of mushroom soup and topped with canned onion rings. A broccoli dish, whatever vague nutrition acquired by the green veggie erased by the pound of cheese that tops it. Creamed onions (no one likes them, but my father’s mother, who’s been dead for 18 years, did, so Mom still makes them). Six or eight pounds of mashed turnips that generally last until Christmas.

When we all sit down to dinner, eager for the feast, there comes the debate over who will say grace. Should it be my 90-year-old grandfather, who appears to have already finished? Or how about Graham, the youngest among us? Maybe my brother, the atheist? No? Finally, someone mutters a vague blessing, and we fall upon the dinner. Which brings us to another tradition — Mom’s pronouncement of A) her dinner is cold and B) nothing tastes that good to her and C) she hopes we'll like it anyway.

This Thanksgiving, we’re going to New Jersey to see my husband’s family. And while I know I’ll have a great time and be treated to a fantastic dinner, while I'll get to play with my very cute little niece and adorable nephew and catch up with my husband’s family, I’ll be missing my mom nonetheless. Hope she saves some turnips for me.

Love you, Mom.

 

My favorite article of clothing.

November 17, 2008

I have a thing for new socks. I love new socks. I mean, we all love new clothes, of course, but there’s something deeply personal about socks. I have a lot of pairs. One with dogs and hearts on it. Rainbow striped socks. Those fluffy, soft socks that feel like little puffs of cloud. Cashmere purple socks with a cable weave. But my favorites are the ones I’m wearing right now — dark green with giraffes on them. I just think they’re fun.

The thing about socks is that they’re hidden most of the time, so no one is aware of your utter coolness when you wear that perfect pair. I guess that’s what I like…that sense of secret fun, that even though I may be wearing yoga pants and an old sweater, chances are my socks are really kickin'. Or if I’m all dressed up for an event, tweed pants, suit jacket, I might be wearing the socks with the paw prints all over them.

My dad was a suit-wearing executive who worked and traveled a lot. Each year for Christmas, we kids would give him socks, because dang it, the man had everything. These were the boring variety — navy blue or black or dark brown, no giraffes anywhere. But Dad he was always so grateful and cute… “Oh, new socks! How nice! These are some very handsome socks!” I liked to picture him in Washington or San Francisco, pulling on some new socks and thinking of us back home.

So whenever I’m gearing up for an event or, the opposite, having a day when I won’t see a soul outside my house, I always pick my socks carefully. Even if no one sees me, I’ll know just how perfect those socks are.

 

The call of the open road

November 10, 2008

I went up to New Hampshire this past weekend to chat with the romance writers in the Granite State. I have to say, New Hampshire has the best state logo in the Union: Live free or die. I like to shout it as I cross the state line… “Live free or DIE!” Such a primally American slogan, so passionate! Then, a couple miles later, there’s the cute little reminder — Please drive with courtesy. That's the New Hampshire way. I have to say, I didn’t notice all that courtesy, too busy trying to get a certain truck off my bumper (I think my Yankees sticker was drawing hostility).

I was solo on this trip, and as ever, I relished being in the car alone. Listened to the same song fourteen times in a row with nary a complaint. Sang along (again, no complaints). Talked out loud, pretending to be my hero and heroine in a heated argument. Got weepy listening to a sweet story on the news. Stopped at McDonalds and didn’t have to share my milkshake. Enjoyed the many vanity plates that New Hampshire car owners seem to adore.

There’s something wonderful about being in the car alone, on a beautiful highway, the rivers and granite of New Hampshire gracing the roadside views, a favorite song on the radio. Friends waiting on one end of the trip, family on the other, and the long, solitary drive between.

 

The joy of the familiar

November 2, 2008

There are a few movies I could watch again and again. I’m sure everyone has the same experience. My movies are fairly disparate in genre…I love thrillers, a few sci-fi adventures, romantic comedies (of course) and epics. I guess it’s the “why” more than the “what.” 

So, in no particular order, some of my favorite movies are…

The Man From Snowy River. Horses. Australians. Horses. Australians. Sigh!

While You Were Sleeping. Sure, Lucy’s lying about being engaged to Peter. But she has a great reason. She’s lonely! She has no family! And that Bill Pullman is just so dang appealing.

The Bourne Identity. Ah, amnesia. How cool to find that even if you couldn’t remember your name, you could still take down the bad guys and had a ton of money in a Swiss bank!

Emma. I love Gwyneth Paltrow. I love English countryside. I love Jeremy Northam. This movie is like the best dessert ever.

The Matrix. Simply put, wicked cool. Those special effects are just amazing. The second and third installments failed to delight me, but that first one is a winner.

Bridget Jones’s Diary. Even the DH loves to watch this one over and over. That scene where she has to introduce her boss, FitzPervert? Painful to behold, and wonderful. And then there’s Colin Firth.

Star Wars, Episode IV. Forgive me for living the cliché, but I was a kid when this movie came out. It changed me. I love this movie…not so much for itself, but how it felt to a geeky little kid who felt, for the first time ever, that maybe being a geeky little kid wasn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, wasn’t Luke Skywalker kind of a geek, too? And look what happened to him!

 

Never say die

October 27, 2008

I’ve said before on this website that I run, and it’s usually cause for a few laughs in the neighborhood. Yesterday, I went running for the first time in a while. Today, the only thing that doesn’t hurt is blinking.

My daughter, bless her sweet heart, went with me as my husband and son stayed home to dig graves for our Halloween party. The last time my dear little 12-year-old and I  ran together was August, when I was trying to convince her that she’d love cross country at her school and should really try out. She did try out. She does love it. I knew this because I saw her ponytail and pink t-shirt getting further and further away from me as she loped gracefully away, the space between us becoming feet, then yards, then a quarter mile. At half mile marks, the dear child would stop to wait for me. Which was good, because at that point, I needed a couple of paddles, some oxygen and a gurney.

When we finally reached the bottom of our driveway, I was wheezing, drenched in sweat and dizzy. My daughter was flushed a lovely shade of tulip pink. She wasn’t out of breath at all…of course, she’d had about ten minutes to wait for me to catch up.

It was humbling…the child who couldn’t keep up with me in August had beaten me handily in October, and with very little effort. But the great thing about being a mom is, I was pretty dang proud, too. Whipped, but proud. Oh, and just for the record...I'm going running again tomorrow. Alone.

 

The horror, the horror

I guess I’m old enough to cringe when I see something “retro” come back into style. Pegged jeans is the latest horrifying trend being revisited these days. Shoulder pads, too, have come back. I know this because I watch Project Runway with religious devotion. Those plaid-patchwork pants? Remember those? They’re back, too. Cowl neck sweaters...why?

It got me to thinking about some of the worst clothes I’ve worn…sadly, while thinking I looked absolutely smashing. There was the orange suit…yes, orange. Bright orange, sort of a mango-tangerine-nuclear accident combo with big brass buttons. I thought I looked fantastic. I was working on Madison Avenue at the time…I bought the suit at Saks…maybe I did look fantastic. Or not.

Then there were the dropped waist dresses that resembled something my great-grandmother wore getting off the boat at Ellis Island. Add to these winners a couple of leg-o-mutton sleeves, and there I was, all ready to meet my boyfriend’s parents…or have a walk-on for an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

The ripped jeans are the ones my 12-year-old daughter can’t get over, no matter how often I tell her how utterly cool I was in college, those shredded knees, maybe a pair of striped tights underneath for that adorable hobo look.

Funny to think that if I’d just hung onto those clothes, they’d be making a comeback about now…

 

The Pay-Off

October 14, 2008

For about six weeks, there's no more beautiful place to visit than New England. We live in a rural area...these shots are all from around my house, and it's so dang gorgeous here that sometimes I get what I call "leaf drunk"...goofy in love type feelings that nature saw fit to do what she does. My house overlooks a little valley with a rock wall and a tiny stream, and in October, I find myself staring out the window a lot, trying to burn the image into my brain as defense for the gray months that lie ahead. Sure, the snow is beautiful. It's the mud, the brown leaves, the gray skies that get us New Englanders down. But for now, the pay-off.

Makes me feel awfully grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

When good songs go bad

October 7, 2008

The DH and I were driving home from Maine this past weekend, listening to the radio, and we started talking about songs we used to love until overexposure turned them toxic. Below is our list.

Jumpin’ Jack Flash, the Rolling Stones

Paint It Black, Memory Motel, Wild Horses, Sympathy for the Devil…anything, anything but JJF. Please. I’m begging here.

 

Borderline, Madonna

Okay, I’ll admit it. I never really liked this song. But if I had, I'd hate it now. It's just been played way too much.

 

Piano Man, Billy Joel

Given that Bill lives in a 10,000 square foot mansion on Long Island, I have a hard time still relating to his woes in a seedy bar.

 

Sunday, Bloody Sunday, U2

U2's my favorite group. My husband is Irish. Most of his family lives there. I think Bono is one of the world's finest citizens. I still don't ever want to hear this song again.

 

Angel, Celine Dion

I was listening to this song in the radio once, and the left lens in my sunglasses broke. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

 

Born in the USA, Bruce Springsteen

I could listen to “Thunder Road” until I’m dead. This one…no.

 

Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin

Painful memories of middle school dances…I mean, what do you do when the fast part comes on?

 

Crocodile Rock, Elton John

I love EJ. So much. Except when he breaks into falsetto.

 

Hotel California, the Eagles

The psychedelic 70s were completely lost on pragmatic me. I found I just didn't care that there were dead people in the hotel.

 

Every Thing You Do Is Magic, the Police

This one was a great song the first 13,892 times I heard it. It really was. But even when I go years without hearing it, it’s so burned into my brain that it’s like the secret word you say to the Manchurian candidate to get him to kill people.

 

See, it's nice having a blog! I can get these things off my chest. There. I feel much better now. Thank you!

 

(And just for the record...I heard four of the above songs on the radio yesterday. Four.)

 

 

Revisiting a happy memory

October 1, 2008

This weekend, the DH and I are headed to Maine, and along the way, we plan to stop and visit and old acquaintance.

If you’ve ever clicked on the photo gallery part of this website, you’ll see a picture of me aboard a lobster boat when I was seven. When it came time to write a lobsterman hero in Catch of the Day, it was inevitable that I chose to call his boat the Ugly Anne, based on my first (and only) experience on such a vessel. I Googled “Ugly Anne” and “lobster boat” but came up empty, and I figured the Ugly Anne had gone the way of the dinosaur.

Much to my happy surprise, a reader emailed me after Catch of the Day came out and told me the Ugly Anne was alive and well. No longer a lobster boat, it’s now a charter fishing boat, still running out of Perkins Cove, Maine. I emailed Jeanne Young, the owner — she is the same lady who took my dad and me out to check traps way back when! I’m so excited about going back to the little town I visited so long ago. Of course, I sent Jeanne a copy of Catch of the Day, as well as a book cover, which she said she’d tape in the rear window of her truck.

Nice, when a happy memory grows into something more, isn’t it? Check the website next week for a couple more pictures from the coast of Maine. And if you’re interested in a gorgeous day on the water, check out the Ugly Anne website at www.uglyanne.com. Tell Jeanne I sent you.

 

My first book tour

September 22, 2008

The nicest thing happened to me this weekend — I went on my first book tour. Levy Books sponsored a tour throughout the great state of Michigan. Twenty-seven authors, three days, nine book signings at Meijer stores (Meijer is a department store, for those who don’t live in the area). I was a bit nervous (petrified might be a better word) about going…some of the authors were so famous, you see. I’m still rather new to the business, so being in the company of Allison Brennan and Brenda Novak, Cherry Adair and Gena Showalter (and so many others!)…it was a little intimidating.

What I found was that authors are, well…shockingly normal. Just like me. Just like everyone. We swapped notes on our kids, talked about how we met our husbands or wives (yes, there were men on the tour, too). Some authors have had experiences that would defy belief if they weren’t true…others have had happily normal lives. But at the end of the day, people are reassuringly still people, no matter what their lives or careers are like. And so we complimented each others’ work, talked about how we got started writing, bought each other’s books and made new friends. We laughed, we ate, we drank lots of coffee. It was just lovely.

But the best part was meeting the readers. I can’t tell you how it makes me (and all of us) feel when someone comes up and says, “I just love your books.” Or when someone who’s never read your work picks it up and decides to give it a try. Sometimes, a reader will ask to have a picture taken with us, which is absolutely thrilling. One lady brought cookies for all of us. At one store, there was a lovely young woman named Melinda who must’ve bought twenty books from our gang. Not only that, she hugged us. How nice is that?

So to all of you who’ve taken time to write to an author or come to a signing…thank you so much! It means so much to us. Being a writer has so many rewards, but the readers are definitely the crown jewels.

 

All in the name of research

September 15, 2008

Like most authors, I do a lot of research for my books. In Fools Rush In, for example, I wrote a scene where a woman gives birth on the beach, so I asked an EMT what kind of talk would go out over the radio. In Catch of the Day, I learned about the lobster industry. Just One of the Guys had me learning what it’s like to row single scull; Too Good To Be True (which comes out this winter) made me a Civil War buff, since my heroine teaches American history.

But then there are the other, not quite so obvious things I’ve had to research. How to spell Jagermeister, for example. What names were popular in 1976. What Rhode Islanders call the water fountain (it’s “bubbla,” by the way). What modern songs you could foxtrot to. Why ice water helps pie crust stay nice and flaky (everyone knows to use ice water…but why? Why?).

To get into my characters’ heads, I’ve watched movies I think they’d watch, eaten foods they might love. I’ve listened to new music groups, since my favorites haven’t changed for 20 years (still U2 and the Boss, gang!). I’ve gone to open house tours for homes I’ll never buy. I visit different areas in the hope of finding my next setting, and I’ve talked to people in industries my characters might work in. I’ve even tried on Spanx, just to see what it was like (we’ll have to talk about that one later).  

Sometimes these things make it into the books, sometimes not, but it’s all part of the process. And, I’ll admit, wicked fun, too.

 

What's for supper?

September 8, 2008

I am not a big fan of cooking dinner. Making breakfast, that’s fun. Pancakes, muffins, the irresistible smell of bacon in the morning…scrambled eggs with a dash of dill, a little cheddar…now you're talking.

But dinner? All that chopping. All that thawing. I tend to dry heave around uncooked chicken. Can't devein a shrimp to save my life. By the time I’m done fixing dinner, I often find that I really don’t want to eat it. Those ingredients and I have spent too much time together as it is.

Over the years, I’ve mastered the art of getting my husband to cook. The first weapon in the arsenal is complimenting. This isn’t hard, since he really is a great cook. But the compliments also have to point out that I could never have pulled off this dinner  (even if it’s, say, grilled cheese). “Oh, honey, this is incredible! The way you layered the cheese…wow!” And being the sweetheart that he is, he buys it.

Another tried and true method is guilt. When it comes to our two kids, I’m definitely the hands-on parent, while he's more of the “provider” type of dad. So when he comes home and asks how my day was, I usually answer something like… “Well, it was fine. I wrote, I cleaned, I…raised your children.” His response is usually to pour me a glass of wine and offer to whip us up something to eat.

When I was a newlywed, I worked in Manhattan, long hours at a tough job. The DH was in night school. By the time I staggered home from the subway at 7 or 8 at night, I’d go to a file of takeout menus from neighborhood places…Thai, Italian, Greek, Chinese. Fifteen minutes later, dinner would be on its way.

My idea of heaven.

 

The tug

September 2, 2008

I was recently watching Cold Mountain for the umpteenth time. Actually, I don't love the movie, though there are moments of brilliance, sure. Renee Zellweger is fantastic, and the battle scenes are breathtaking. The scene with Natalie Portman... terrifying. But I'll be honest here...I watch that movie for the kiss. The kiss on the porch. Inman kisses Ada seconds before he leaves for war. They barely know each other, but my God. That kiss.

It's almost embarrassing how much voyeuristic pleasure I get from watching that kiss. I feel it in my stomach. Here I am, happily married for quite a nice long time now, practically swooning over two overpaid actors smooching.

But it works. Throughout my life, there have been those tugs that, in all likelihood, have inspired me to be a romance writer. Scarlett and Rhett...not just on the road to Tara (though that is an amazing kiss!), but when she visits him in jail and almost, almost has him confessing his love. Or in the wonderful movie While You Were Sleeping, when Lucy asks Jack if he can give her any reason not to marry his brother...and he says no. Because he just can't break up his brother's relationship, no matter how much he loves Lucy. Alaina and Cole in Kathleen Woodiwiss's Ashes in the Wind. Sometimes it's just a look. Sometimes it's a kiss. But we all know the tug when we feel it. It's what romance is all about.

 

The real new year...

August 28, 2008

The new school year always felt more to me like the real new year than January 1st. After all, New Year's Day is a little anticlimactic. The gifts are given, the decorations are starting to droop, and there's a lot of cleaning up to do. Winter weather promises to hassle us for at least another three and a half months here in New England...closer to four for most of us.

But September? The air is changing, the leaves hinting at their autumnal glory, the kiddies are back in school. A new teacher, new grade, new distinction as being older than last year. New backpacks, new shoes, clean crisp notebooks and sharpened pencils. Everything smacks of potential. This will be the year that I...don't miss a day of school. Organize my closets. Finish writing that book.

While summer continues to be my favorite season, as my kids are home and we tend to structure our days around whether we want to swim first and go to the library later, I do love the new school year, too. Everything seems possible in September, don't you think?

 

Dorothy had it right...

August 20, 2008

There really is no place like home.

After a lovely visit with our Midwestern cousins in Illinois, it was back home again to Connecticut. The leaves have just begun to turn here...hints of red at the tops of the maples, the black-eyed susans in our field giving way to goldenrod, a chill in the air, the late summer cicadas, which we always called "back to school bugs," singing away at night. Digger was so happy to see his family again, he didn't know which one of us to lick first and just circled madly for a minute or two, too happy to sit still.

I introduced Rita here to her new boyfriend...the DH was Firefighter of the Year a while back after rescuing a man from a burning building. So the two statues will sit, for the moment, on my bureau. Hopefully, they'll fall in love. (How can she resist? He's a firefighter!)

This morning, I sat on my front porch and read a book. The thing about vacations is, they're not always relaxing. Thrilling, informative, wonderful, but sometimes, your own front porch is the place to be, a devoted dog at your feet, a good mug of coffee in your hand. The simple, best things, the pleasure and comfort of being home once more.

 

Homesickness

August 15, 2008

It’s Day 17 away from home for me — the Romance Writers National Convention and our family drive across country — and I’m really missing my dog. Dear little Digger, our black lab mutt. Sure, he’s being spoiled at my mom’s with her dog, Derry, for company. He gets to sleep on Mom’s bed, eat table scraps and stay in air conditioning. (My mom is not a person who says no if yes is an option. And to her, yes is usually an option.)

Other things I miss…my front porch. My pillows. Line-dried laundry. Home-cooked meals (preferably cooked by my DH). Trees. We’ve been driving across the high plains and prairie for days now, and while it’s beautiful, I do miss our forest of maple, beech, oak and birch. My flower garden (don’t miss the weeding, though). My chair. The New York Yankees. Shockingly, South Dakota doesn’t carry the YES Network.

But seeing this vast, beautiful country has been an eye-opener for me. Driving through towns that have a population of 44…miles and miles of sunflower farms…the desolate, spiritual splendor of the Badlands…the vast pine forests of Oregon…the cold shock of a Wyoming river…our country truly is America the Beautiful.

 

God’s Country

 August 11, 2008

Driving across country with your husband and kids…lots of food spillage, some bickering, the requisite annoying songs, the occasional U-turn, a couple of crummy hotels, a couple of great ones. And then, the reason we came. Yellowstone National Park.

On Friday, we awoke in a little cabin on the shore of Lake Hebgen in Montana. A cloud hugged the nearest mountain, and I went out on the porch and sipped my coffee (wrapped in a blanket, mind you…it was cold!). Then we headed to Yellowstone, the country’s oldest national park. Just driving in caused my heart to swell…The natural beauty of the Madison River, the sharp, clean scent of pine, the steaming billows of the Lower Geyser Basin…these are things we just don’t have back in Connecticut. Enormous bison passed within feet of us, grunting away (apparently, it’s mating season…the kids got a little lesson in the facts of life). A grizzly bear cub and its more cautious mother ran across the road, just a few feet from our car. A female moose grazed at the edge of a path, and each river, cascade and waterfall was simply miraculous.

After we left the park, we headed into a fierce thunderstorm…pelting rain that echoed on the roof of our car and the tin roof of our cabin, thunder that echoed over the lake and against the mountains that surround it. The DH and I stood outside and watched the sun clear the nearest peak, and then…a rainbow, the brightest and clearest I’ve ever seen. And then another. Two rainbows, arcing over the mountain and lake, bathing the far shore in a pool of golden sunlight. A brief hailstorm followed — the first hail I’ve ever seen live and in person.

We ended the night at the Longhorn Saloon, having a dinner that far exceeded the restaurant’s humble appearance. We chatted with Chip, the owner, on the porch overlooking Lake Hegben. His Western charm was not lost on this romance writer…there’s a reason we love cowboys, isn’t there, ladies?

Back home to our little cabin. A perfect day in God’s country with my family.

 

O, happy day!

August 3, 2008

Last night, two thousand romance writers gathered for the RITA Awards, which acknowledges the best in romance writing categories. Catch of the Day was nominated, and as you can see, it won! A very happy, very proud moment! With me is New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard, my friend.

The last time I won anything, it was an apron at our church raffle when I was ten. This was better. By a long shot. I'm still quite dazed, and so grateful, and so, so happy.

 

 

Hello from RWA National in San Francisco!

August 2, 2008

The City by the Bay has been full of good cheer, beautiful weather and 2500 romance writers for the Romance Writers of American National Convention. This is the second one I've gone to, and I confess to being a little star-struck at seeing so many of my favorite authors. I've been out in the city (Silver Man and I became very close), saw the big Ghiradelli sign, took the modern equivalent to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, courtesy of Igor, the Mad Russian Cabbie, and have been having an incredibly fun time. Most of my writing life is spent alone, in my basement office, with Digger for company and a picture of Derek Jeter on the wall...once a year, I get to come to RWA and be among fellow writers, from the greats to the aspiring. For most of us, it's the reward for all those hours spent at the keyboard.

Tomorrow, my DH and lovely kiddies are coming here, and we're heading off across our beautiful country to see the sights. I'll post pictures as we go.

Until then...

 

It's All Good.

July 20, 2008

At long last, I've overcome my blogophobia and started a blog (insert trumpet music here). Hello! Thanks for being interested enough to tune in. For a long time, I resisted blogging, since my day is packed chock full as it is, and I'm usually running around with a cup of coffee in one hand, my laptop in another and the phone in a third, but if you guys clicked the button and think I have something interesting to say, well, heck, I'm not going to contradict you.

So thanks!

For now, I'll tell you a little bit of what's going on...the kids are out of school, I just handed in my fourth manuscript and got started on another one, and I'm starting to think about the RWA National Conference in San Francisco. Good old CATCH OF THE DAY grabbed its little self a RITA nod, which came as a wonderful shock...I think I was the only writer that day who thought the president of RWA was calling about membership dues. CATCH is my second book, and when I saw the list of other finalists, I was, to say the least, humbled. I've been reading their books and learning a lot about craft and characters and having a great time in general.

Some of us finalists did a little trash-talking video. If you're interested, the link is

 http://youtube.com/watch?v=y2UXH_LWkic

All I can say is that we had a great time doing it.

After the conference, the kids, hubby and I are driving home to Connecticut. Hopefully, no murders will be committed en route, though I have reviewed "justifiable homicide" in the law books and see that refusing to stop and ask for directions falls under that umbrella. The Dear Husband has been warned! I'll be posting from along the way, along with pictures from our trip, so keep an eye out.

Until next time,

Kristan