Summertime Food

Helen here.

I’ll get it out there right away. I don’t cook.

I also have to admit I see that as a bit of a personal failing. My mother is a wonderful cook and while I have learned some of her secrets and I CAN cook, I just don’t like to. I think enjoyment of that particular pastime must skip a generation ‘cause my daughter likes to cook too.

During the winter, I can make myself cook because I love leftover hotdishes and casseroles, and the handy, dandy crockpot makes things simple.

But it’s summer. Not only can I think of so many other things I’d like to do besides hanging around in the kitchen, I don’t want to heat up the house with the oven, let alone eat all those heavy wintery foods. I’m stumped.

On top of that, I’ve been furiously writing with my 9/1 deadline looming and now have an excuse not to cook. Still feel badly about that, though. Strangely enough, my heroine in the current WIP hates cooking too. Naturally, the hero enjoys effortlessly tossing together marvelous meals. I know, I know. It’s not reality, but it is my fantasy.

My family is sick of mac and cheese, frozen pizzas and cold sandwiches. The nearby take out restaurants know our orders by heart.

So … I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours …

My simple, summery food idea (can’t really call it a recipe) tastes so good, I actually crave it. Chop up any veggie that you can poke with a skewer and grill. I use mushrooms, all varieties of peppers, red, green and yellow, zucchini, and onions. Put them in a Ziploc baggie and pour a bottle of Italian dressing over them. Let ‘em sit for half an hour, or longer if you like strong flavor. Stick ‘em on a skewer and grill.

It’s good for you, and the leftovers taste great too.

What’s your favorite, easy, grilling or summer dinner idea. No recipes, please, unless they are so simple and quick Big Bird could put it together, clumsy hands and all. My idea of easy is opening a bottle of marinade, or can of something and pouring it over something else. I love recipes that take advantage of already partially prepared food items like bagged lettuce, or skinned and deboned chicken breasts.

My family will love you for this.

Oh, and I have a vegetarian at home who will eat fish, so any seafood ideas are especially welcome!

IT'S A BOOK!

I have a new book coming out. Believe it or not, it’ll be my 26th!

I had to think long and hard to figure that out. Which is really strange because I remember when I was young and fragile (unlike my present condition of old and fragile) and would ask seasoned writers how many books they had published. Rarely did they have a ready answer, and it seemed so odd to me that they could possibly forget. It would be like forgetting how many children one had, I thought. And maybe that’s true, if one had 26 children.

But after 14 years of publication, I now understand the situation a bit better. Because while my 26th book is about to be released, I’m doing page proofs for 27, wrapping up 28, considering 29, and gearing up for my first anthology. It gets a little confusing for a natural born schizophrenic like myself.

But I still feel badly. I mean, I can’t even remember all of my major characters’ names anymore, much less the minor people, of which there are, I estimate, somewhere around 1000. I can’t remember why I adored them and worried about them and thought they needed their own stories, their own happy endings. But I know they were, once upon a time, extremely important to me.

The process of writing books is not unlike that of gestating a child. As mothers, we worry about their future. Will they be happy? Will they be loved? Also, like babies, our stories will meet thousands of people and each person will have his or her own opinion about them. Once our books are out there, once they’re gestated and born and breathing their own air, there’s only so much we can do to protect them. To nurture them. Even though we rather desperately want to say, please love them. Please be kind to them.

Anyway, I digress. As I said, I have a new book coming out. The title is Bewitching the Highlander. It’ll hit the shelves on August 1st. And…well…please love it.
So, what’s your story? Are you a writer? Do you want to be a writer? What’s the most difficult part of the process for you? Do have any questions about the whole mad cycle? Ask away. We ladies here in the convertible have written and published somewhere around 200 novels (yikes!) and are ready and willing to answer questions.

My Hometown

I love where I live. (The Minneapolis/St. Paul area). I'm a four season girl who's not afraid of snow. I love the lakes and ponds that wink out at you everywhere you look, the lavish and appreciated green spaces. I love how there's lots of big-city entertainment, music and pro sports and tons of theater, in a place that still often feels like a smaller community. I love the maniacal enthusiasm with which we embrace every nice day (and nice is a pretty flexible term) because we're not sure when we're getting another.

But I don't often look at it much like a tourist. We've got guests this weekend, a huge batch of them, from China and Brooklyn and Toronto, and it's our job to entertain them and show them the city.

Last night we were out with my husband's sort-of boss, who lives in Chicago, and his wife, and they asked us "what's the one thing we should make sure to do/see in Minneapolis?" I was completely stumped.

Since they're active sorts, I ended up recommending that they get a canoe and go through the chain of lakes in south Minneapolis. I doubt there are too many cities blessed with such lovely, linked bodies of water within their city limits.

But it got me thinking . . . in your hometown, what would you recommend? I'd love to hear from my fellow Twin Citians (I still have a weekend to fill up, after all) but I'd also love to hear from other places . . . if I were going there, and could only do one thing, what would you recommend?

Susie

And the winner is...

Virginia Lady wins after posting at yesterday's blog. Please email Michele at: toastfaery@gmail.com with your snail mail address. Thanks!

Familiar with any Strangers?

My latest release is showing up in stores this week! You can find it wherever Harlequin/Silhouette series books are sold. When I was trying to come up with a title I wanted to use the word Familiar, since my heroine is one. When I typed the word into Google, it brought up a page on familiar strangers. The concept is cool, and it's something we've all experienced.

Have you ever noticed, perhaps in the grocery store, or Target, or even at the movie theater, that you've seen that person before? You don't know the person, but you recognize them. They are familiar to you. You've never had a conversation with them, but if you saw them somewhere other than the usual place, you would be like 'hey, I know them'. That's what a familiar stranger is, those people we know, but don't really know and have no direct interaction with. There's a whole website devoted to researching this phenomenon.

But that's not what my book is about. :-) I just liked the title.

This is the first book in a multi-author 4-book series. Want to know the cool part? All four of us (the authors) are friends. We were brought together in 1995 through an online critique service. We didn't know each other; we were spread to the four corners of the US, communicating only by computer. We sent chapters back and forth, and critiqued religiously for many years. When we first got together none of us had published. Now? We've 40+ books between us. We've met in person only a few times at RWA conferences (though Nina and I did go to Paris together last year). We are: Nina Bruhns, Cynthia Cooke, Michele Hauf, and Pat White.

How cool is that that we got to work on a series of books together? We actually created this project ourselves. Together we designed a world where demons and faeries and vampires and werewolves really do exist. We needed a hermetic order to study the otherworldly entities and learn from them. They are The Cadre. And we wanted a rival organization; a black-ops section of MI-5 called P-Cell. We peopled our world and shared characters between the books. It was an amazing experience. We grew as writers. We grew as friends. And we now have a pretty good idea how, exactly, one would go about capturing and interrogating a demon. (Not that any of us are going to try. I'm just sayin')

We named the series Dark Enchantments, and we are giving it to you, our readers. We hope that you'll read them all, because we want to introduce our own fans to the other authors' writing.

Now, we also have a blog. Actually, I think it belongs to the characters. They've been posting (yes, the characters), and they seem a little surprised that a bunch of romance writers have actually written books about them. Though, Raskin, (the faery—sorry, former prince of the Black court) does seem more than pleased about the whole deal (though a little upset the stories do not star him. But if you're interested, do stop by the Dark Enchantments blog. We're holding a contest through November, with a basket of prizes to give away. You'll find details at the blog.

And since I'm just all about giving stuff away this week (see my blog for my contests) I'm going to give away a copy of FAMILIAR STRANGER here today. At the end of the day, I'll draw a random winner from all the commenters. (Do check back on Friday for the winner's name) I'll throw in a beaded bookmark, and...a handy-dandy demon-capturing device. [Author is not responsible should the winner actually capture a demon. You're on your own with that, baby.]

So what about you? Do you have any familiar strangers in your life? And what about multi-author series? Do they interest you? If you read the first book, and enjoy it, does that compel you to check the next in the series?

Michele

Susan Mallery is "pitching in" today !

Before I turn the soapbox over to Susan, I just have to say first, she is bright, funny, tireless (she's written over 100 books), brilliant (USA Today's Bestseller list, National Readers' Choice Award, etc.--it's a long list) and is one of the few reasons I'd go live in rainy Washington state.

She's that good. Really. Help me welcome a good buddy of mine-- SUSAN MALLERY!

(pssst...that's her new book on the left. Just came out this month. I have to tell you because she neglected to mention that in her blog! It's the fourth in the Buchanan series. Visit her website and see a great video trailer for the book. wwwSusanMallery.com)

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This is why I’d never make it in Hollywood…

I really like being a writer. I don’t have to dress well, I don’t go to meetings and any day can be donut day. But there are the occasional challenges. Conference, for example. All the recent posts about the thrill and pressure of solitary writers suddenly having to be “on” at a conference, chatting with agents and editors, as if we spend our days with real people instead of the voices in our head. It can be stressful.

I can be incredibly charming on my computer, with a idea about what I’m supposed to say and plenty of time to edit. But on the fly? Let’s just say in person there’s more potential for, um, well, disaster. Then there’s that moment when an editor or agent or hey, the romance buyer from Borders says “What’s your next book about?” The author (namely me) is supposed to smile brightly and deliver the perfect one sentence pitch that leaves said agent/editor/powerful book buyer wide-eyed with delight and eagerly anticipating the book while secretly thinking the author is talented and brilliant and destined to be a star.

It’s a lot of pressure for a single sentence.

Pitching an idea is an age-old tradition. My favorite ever is for Jurassic Park—Jaws with dinosaurs. So cool. So easy to understand. So hard to do.

I have a book coming out in January—Accidentally Yours. It’s one of those amazing books occasionally given by the universe—an idea that popped into my head one evening and then was a total joy to write. I love this book. People who have read it love the book. It could be the best thing I’ve ever written. So, did I have a pitch prepared for conference? Nooooooo.

I just plain don’t know what to say. (You can imagine that last sentence with a serious whine in my voice. Really. It’s better that way.) I’ve been working and twisting sentences and words and I just can’t get it. Here’s one attempt.

“Single mom Kerri Sullivan is willing to do anything to save her dying nine year old son—break the law, impersonate a waitress, attempt to seduce a gay chauffer—all in an effort to corner billionaire Nathan King and convince him to contribute fifteen million dollars to a research scientist working on a cure.”

Okay—but Kerri also pretends to be a superhero. When her son got sick, he was only five and he got really depressed about the disease, so she decided that she would convince him she was a superhero because if she was one, he would have superhero genes and could beat the sickness. Apparently it’s working, because he’s still alive. She has a totally cheesy costume and the town helps her do stuff like pretend to lift a car with her bare hands. Plus Nathan lost *his* son to the same disease, so he’s emotionally distant and crabby, but very sexy. And they do strike a deal, with Kerri basically blackmailing Nathan into helping, then offering herself in return. For anything he wants.

All of which is a whole lot more than one sentence. Or even two sentences. I don’t know how to say the book is funny and sexy and that it’s probably going to make people cry, but they’ll laugh, too, and it’s really special and I love it and I hope they’ll love it.

Soooo…pitch your favorite book. Can you sell it in one or two sentences? And if you have any suggestions about pitches for Accidentally Yours, post away.

Success, comfort, and other confusing things.

Sometimes I feel like the Rip Van Winkle of writing.

My first RWA national conference was 20 years ago, 1987 in Dallas. . . and I came away from those tumultuous four days with the distinct impression that everybody in this business knew more about it than I did. I had already published two books, but the newest pre-pubbed members seemed to know more about publishers, contract terms, and editor/agent relations than I did. And that was without mentioning the technical aspects of writing. . . story arcs, conflict, voice, research, scenes and sequels, "beats," and POV. What the hell was "POV?"

Boy, did I have a lot to learn.

This year-- 20 years later-- I came home from Dallas with a Rita and a delirious feeling of accomplishment. Which came crashing down around me like a leaky Macy's parade float the minute I opened my current WIP and realized how much I still have to do to make it presentable. Even so-- I'm still smiling. And for today, I feel like a success. Which is a feeling I intend to hang on to for as long as possible.


Which of course led me to ponder "success" and all it's ramifications. The most immediate of which is this blissful feeling of well-being that makes me want to do NOTHING! I want to sip champagne or Snapple and lounge around in the sun like a lizard. Which may be the karmic reason success never lasts too long for me. . . it wouldn't be good for me. I'd probably never write another word. I have discovered that discomfort is actually productive for me. Go figure.

Okay, I'm not talking buying size 8 1/2 shoes despite the fact that I wear a 9. . . just because they were out of my usual size. . . and then getting blisters. I am talking about the trap of emotional and mental comfort. Being too comfy to move. Or grow. Or create. The Comfort Trap.

I knew for some time that I needed to kick the writing up a notch and get back to the place in me where I really ENJOYED crafting stories and putting ideas on a page.

"The Book of True Desires," which won the Rita, was that book for me. While writing that book, I rediscovered what I truly love about writing. And it was glorious. I couldn't wait to get to the computer each day. I wrote pages and pages without a halt. At the end of the day, I felt totally satisfied. That, I said to myself, was WRITING. And I wanted to feel that passionate, that involved, that creative with every book I write. At the end of that book, I felt energized in a way I hadn't been in years.

That lasted about a month.

Until I started on my next project, and then another, then another. . . none of which seemed to be right somehow. I was comparing them all to the "success" of writing True Desires. Hmm. So I took a risk and decided to do things differently: I got a critique group.

My only real complaint about writing as a career is that it's so isolating. So why didn't I think of this before? I had a process-- big, sprawling, messing, sometimes incoherent, but mine-- and I didn't want anybody messing with it. Having critique partners meant I'd have to listen to them. And maybe change things I wrote. Out of my comfort zone. Clearly. But I was in real need of some productive change and this seemed. . . do-able.

As we get to know each other better and learn how to work together, we're really enriched by each other's ideas and perceptions. And I'm feeling less isolated and I'm forced to actually make pages for my partners to read. Sometimes I struggle with whether or not to take their advice, but I know when they really like something that it's good. It's just enough "discomfort" at the right times to keep me on my toes.

Maybe that's the key to an enduring career. . . challenging yourself to grow beyond your usual. . . never being too comfortable to look for better ways to do things. Because when we get too comfortable, the market will change, the "next new thing" will outpace us, and we'll be in Jurassic Park before we know it. As exhibits.

Now my hairstyle. . . that's a comfort I don't intend to let anybody mess with. Not even in the interest of growth. Oh, yeah, and the clunky Clark's shoes that Rex says make me look like I shouldn't be trusted with scissors. And of course those elastic waist shorts. . .

What about you? What areas of your life does your comfort zone rule? What do you do to keep yourself current and involved? What is your reaction to success? Do you ever get too comfortable for your own good?

Debra - POTTERING AROUND WITH THE MONDAY MORNING REVIEW

NO SPOILERS IN THIS REVIEW.


Spidey fans everywhere will tell you that "With great power comes great responsibility."

Those who linger in the Potter-verse will say, "With great adventure comes great cost."

Personally I'm going to need to explain to a client tomorrow that "Potter ate my homework." (Hey, I'm not a slacker! I didn't get HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS until Saturday afternoon; it's over 700 pages and I had to quickly read the last 100 or so pages of #6 to get up to speed. Plus I had family obligations Sunday morning. When did I have time to work on things for clients??)

Yes, it's here. The much anticipated last hurrah for the Potter books. It's that moment we've been longing for and dreading all at once. But more longing. DEATHLY HALLOWS sold 8.3 MILLION books in the first 24 hours.

That's some serious fan base.

So, what's the scroop without spoiling the plot for those who can't blow off personal responsibility, barracade themselves in their favorite reading chair, and inhale the book immediately? JK Rowling didn't phone this one in. HALLOWS is a fitting ending for the Potter series.

All the elements we've come to know and love about a Potter book are woven into the fabric of the narrative. Her characters (when they aren't busy dying) continue to come alive. (That's NOT a spoiler. She's warned all along that there is a price to be paid in the struggle.)

Is this book any greater than the others? No. But I think the previous book are pretty special. Like most Potter-heads, I have them all in hardback. It's a great final chapter to the series. It delivered on the story promises she's made.

And many times during the book I was reminded of those classic scenes in westerns when the hero(es) are walking to their fate and the walk becomes almost slow motion as the character comes toward the camera. You just know something special is going to happen.

There are a few curse words. Nothing inappropriate. Darned appropriate, actually, given each instance.

If you want me to quibble, I'd say some of the logic as we were hitting the home stretch got a little convoluted. In Rowling's defense I was reading quickly, so I'll delay final judgment on that until I've had a chance to do the series justice and reread it from beginning to end. But that's a lot of pages and will have to wait a bit. I've got a few projects I have to catch up on...

How about you? How many of you out there visit the Potter-verse?

More Conference Pics

From Helen, for inquiring eyes ...

While at the RWA conference in Dallas, several of us Harlequin NASCAR authors toured the Texas Speedway. Here we, from left to right, me, Wendy Etherington, Ken Casper, Marsha Zinberg (Harlequin Executive Editor), Abby Gaines, Jean Brashear, and Michele Dunaway.




Here's me at my very first national literacy signing. Don't I look excited!













Next are a couple pics from the big Harlequin bash.


One of my wonderful critique partners, Rosemary Heim and me.










Betina, Cindy and Kathleen ...

Strutting












their
















Stuff!!

Kathleen's Hot Time In Steamy Dallas

All roads to writing Romance eventually swing through Texas. So there we Riders were last week, doing Dallas. Five of us, anyway. Doing what, you say? Conferencing, of course. Writers write, and writers conference. Romance Writers of America's annual national conference is an amazing event. For four days, 2000 of RWA's--what? 9000 members?--live in a world where the women are strong (they commandeer all the bathrooms), the men are good-looking (because we said so), and the children are way above average but only here in our photos.

Speaking of photos, here's (above, left to right, front to back) Kathleen, Helen, Christie, Cindy and Betina, posing either before or after a meal. Food is a big priority at these wingdings. Your day is planned around when you're going to eat and with whom. Business goes down well with food. Also information. Instruction. And dishing, naturally.

Recognition for a job well done may be accompanied with food, but applause is even nicer. Cindy, Christie and I are really tickled with our finalist certificates. It's an honor just to be nominated, isn't it, girls? Now, Betina is another story, but we'll get to that.

We partied. Big parties and little parties, dance parties--floor full of gyrating females, just like junior high--and put-your-feet-up parties. My roomie and I shared a Hummer limo with a gaggle of authors bound for the Harlequin party, which is always a highlight.


Finally, the big night came. It was exciting to have four Riders up for Rita awards. The pretty maids all in a row are my roomie, Judy Baer, also a finalist; yours truly, Thea Divine and Betina. All ready and waiting.


Left, sitting with my editor, Leslie Wainger, who bought my first book in 1983 and continues to edit me. We look good together, don't we?

And the Rita for Best Short Historical Romance goes to...
Betina Krahn! Yaaaay! Isn't that a gorgeous smile?

This was a great conference for me because I hadn't been to RWA National in several years, and it was wonderful to see people, reconnect with old friends. I made some business contacts, heard some encouraging tidbits about bookselling, attended a couple of workshops about my least favorite part of the business (promotion) and learned some things that might actually improve my efforts if I just give them the old college try.

But, man, it was good to be back!

What's your favorite part of RWA or any professional conference? How do your conferences compare? Have you had any Eureka! moments at a conference lately? Anything funny or heartwarming? Anything you learned about and can't wait to try?

My life as a chew toy

Hi Guys. It's Cindy and I did it. In a weak – VERY weak moment, I relented and gave in to my DH’s desire to get a new puppy. An 8 week old Brittany Spaniel.I know. I know, I KNOW. I should have known better. I should have remembered the house breaking issues, the chewing issues, the house breaking issues, the up several times in the night issues, the house breaking issues, the whimpering and crying issues and did I mention … the house breaking issues???

So, what was I thinking? I was thinking about our old dog, Boomer, also a Brittany Spaniel that we lost in November and how much I miss him. He was such a sweetheart. But he was an old dog. There’s just something about old dogs. They are so special. But a puppy? Who chews? On me, on her bunny, on my rugs, on my shoes? URG!!

But, I was also thinking about this face. Yup. The moment I saw her, my heart melted and I forgot about the disrupted sleep, the wet newspapers, the sharp little teeth that would rather chew on me than on her stuffed bunny.

And I was also thinking about our other dog, Ellie, who has been missing Boomer. Somehow, however, I don’t think a puppy was what she had in mind for companionship. The look on Ellie’s face tells the tail – er pardon me, tale.

Yet despite it all, I am totally, completely, irrevocably in love with Margaret. Yes, we named her Margaret. On the way home with her a week ago, we were trying on name after name after name and none seemed to fit. So I lifted her up, looked her in the eye and said, “Well, Miss Margaret, what ARE we going to call you?” My dh and I looked at each other, grinned and knew we had our name. Not Maggie, not Meg, not Margie, but Margaret. Because she’s beautiful and classic and regal – when she’s not chewing or whining or peeing. And when she’s sleeping – ah, what an angel.

So – advice? It’s been a long time since I house broke a puppy. We’re doing pretty well but helpful hints are always welcome. She’s cutting teeth like crazy so the biting is a huge problem. She has chew toys and little tiny puppy raw hide chews and flyswatters (she seems to have a thing for flyswatters) but her chew toy of choice is ME. Help. Any and all suggestions for not only housebreaking but training her not to bite are more than welcome.

Christie's (Kinda) Excellent ER Adventure

Saturday morning, July 14, 9:50 a.m.

I slip inside the NAL booksigning before the doors open with buddies Barbara Freethy and Christina Dodd, just to hang out for a few minutes. There, I spy another friend, Maureen Child, and we commiserate about our swollen left ankles. Maureen said she’d been so concerned she’d “throw a blood clot” the night before, that she’d made Susan Mallery promise to comb her hair before calling authorities if she didn’t wake up in the morning.

Saturday afternoon, July 16, 12:50 p.m.

I’m eating lunch beside debut historical author Monica McCarty (BTW, check out the luscious covers of her trilogy here) when I suddenly notice a plum-colored, plum-shaped bruise over the pulsepoint on my left wrist. Monica and I both think it’s weird and I decide to go lie down.

Saturday afternoon, July 16, 1:50 p.m.

Wonderful friend Barbara Samuel tracks me down in my room. She encourages me to call a nurse helpline who advises that my symptoms (the leg) mean I should see a doctor within the next four hours. I decide (a bit tearfully) to head to the nearest ER, but run into Susan Mallery, who when I tell her about my destination, my swollen leg, and my left wrist, tells me that Maureen has the exact same bruise! We rush to find Maureen who almost instantly decides to accompany me to the ER to be checked out as well.

Saturday afternoon, July 16, 3:30 p.m.

Maureen is given a clean bill of health (and thinks she remembers that she got her bruise stopping an elevator door from closing. I, on the other hand, am in a hospital gown and waiting for an ultrasound test since they’re still worried about my left leg--my wrist is nothing, they tell me). Maureen, bless her forever, refuses to leave me, even though she’s presenting a Rita that night (in the very category I’m competing). She enlists the ER staff in hurrying my situation along, telling them we’re romance authors, etc. They google us (didn’t we look like romance authors?) and then the race is on to get me tested! Not only did they move quickly to wheel me to the ultrasound room, but they all rushed around to get results and paperwork ASAP. Thank you, Methodist Hospital ER Staff!

Saturday afternoon, July 16, 4:30 p.m.

I’m cleared of deep-vein thrombosis, but maybe not of an over-active imagination. No, seriously, they said my symptoms truly warranted concern and a check. As I was getting on a plane the next morning, I was much relieved not to have to worry the entire flight about the cramped seating. They call Maureen and I a cab…it doesn’t arrive…it still doesn’t arrive…it still doesn’t arrive…. (The photo was taken when Maureen and I were waiting for our ride.)

Saturday afternoon, July 16, 5:45 p.m.

I make it back in my hotel room, after three calls to the cab company, much frustration, and an endless love for Maureen Child who made the whole experience so much less upsetting than it could have been.

Saturday night, July 16, 9:45 p.m.

I didn’t win the Contemporary Single Title Rita. But I came home with the knowledge that I’m in great health and have great, supportive friends.

All right, everyone, let’s hear your ER story.

Helen's Conference Experience 2007

Someone I spoke with at RWA’s national conference in Dallas last week gave it woo-wooish astrological explanation. She said certain planets had aligned, or the whole Friday the 13th thing had come into play in a good way.

Could be it had something to do with having my first two books out this year and doing my very first literacy signing. (When someone I don’t know actually buys my books then it’ll be really exciting.) Maybe it had something to do with me blowing off all but two of the workshops (and I even moderated one, he he he).

No matter the explanation, I had more fun at this year’s national RWA conference than I’ve ever had before. I think it all came down to the people I encountered. Everyone was incredible nice, from my editors to the other writers to the hotel staff.

I’ll give you an example.

When I first arrived at the hotel, I discovered that I’d made my reservations all those months before for the day before my flight arrived. So they, um, gave away my room. And the hotel was booked for the night.

The very nice young woman at the front desk said she’d try to find me a couch or something. She went back behind a little black wall to do a little magic and came back with what she called a “parlor” room, complete with a Murphy bed. They’d switch me to a regular room the next night. I thanked her and joked about how I kinda liked the sexy sound of sleeping in a parlor.

I was happy I wouldn’t be sleeping in a bathtub.

I ended up staying in that room for the duration, didn’t have to repack and move my luggage, and saved a pretty penny.

For all the smooth sailing I experienced, there were problems swirling around me. In some cases, the lines and waits were long. In the restaurant, to get onto the elevator, at the bar. But if you have fun people to visit with, I discovered, I don’t even notice.

Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t everyone else. Maybe it all came down to me and my attitude. I've never thought of it this way before, but that’s kinda empowering, ya know?

What about you? Ever find yourself in a situation where a simple change of attitude made all the difference in the world?

Whoo hoo!!!! Congratulations to Betina Krahn for picking up the RITA for THE BOOK OF TRUE DESIRES in the Best Short Historical Romance category. We're proud of you, Betina!

You, Me, and the Dreaded Body Image

Greiman

Okay, here’s the deal; I just spent a week-end with my skinny friends--you know the type…or maybe you don’t…I mean they are SERIOUSLY skinny. 5’4” 105 pounds skinny, 5’2” 98 pounds skinny and the third one…well, she doesn‘t even really exist in anything but a metaphysical sense. These are the tiniest women in the known (and possibly the unknown) universe. And guess what…the topic of food, fat grams and fat in general was still prevalent throughout our mini-vacation conversations. In fact, my 98 pound friend said she’d like to ‘get rid of a little hip’. We had to inform her that if she did, in fact, ‘get rid of a little hip’ her nonexistent waist would run straight into her non-existent thighs.

But her statement made me realize once again that we women have a problem. Or maybe we have several problems. First we are obsessed with weight. According to a recent survey, nearly half of all American women are on a diet at any given time. True, women have probably worried about the size of their butts since the first cavewoman crawled out her domicile, but 25 years ago models only weighed 8% less than the average American woman. Now the average model weighs 23% less. So the chances of a positive change aren’t too likely in the very near future.

Then again maybe we have another problem that caused the first problem. Because I’ve recently read that 97 million adults are overweight or obese. That’s a lot of chubbiness, and cause for a lot of dieting, which doesn’t seem to be working since most dieters end up heavier than they started out. (After a 12 month period.)

Then there is the 3-8% of our population that has eating disorders. Those who are literally ‘dying to be thin’ while half of the developing nations are ‘dying to eat’. The dichotomy is painful.

But I have no solutions. In fact, most of my kinsfolk are anorexic overachievers and I'm no exception, having certainly suffered my share of self-inflicted angst and malnutrition. In fact I spent years being half bulimic, half anorexic and all psychotic. So I see the problem pretty clearer. I just don’t know what to do about it.

Yeah, we can try to have healthier role models. Yeah we can try to teach our children to eat 'right'. But is any of it going to work if we ourselves are obsessing about every gram, every ounce, every fat cell?

Again, I have no solutions. But if YOU do I’d like to hear them. And here’s a little 'food' for thought: Does it get easier as we get older? Do we care less? Do we care too little? Do we still care too much?

How much SHOULD we worry about weight? I mean, obesity is obviously not healthy, but neither is a debilitating body image.

And lastly, how do we fix the whole dilemma? How do we even out the scales, literally and figuratively so that a larger percent of the planet’s population can be somewhere in the middle instead on the extreme…and painful… outer edges?

Thoughts anyone?

Top of the World, by Susie

One of the reasons I didn't go to national is we just returned from a huge trip. 2 1/2 weeks, in China, with my whole family. It was intensely special to us: it was son #2's choice, to celebrate the end of his cancer treatment last year. My husband was born in China, and the first two boys and I have been there, but we've all only seen a tiny bit, around his hometown in southern China.

So we saw China. Xi'an and Beijing and Guilan. But the sharpest memories for me are of Lhasa, Tibet.

I was worried about going there. The altitude (12000 feet for the city itself), the food, the flight over the mountains on a Chinese airline. It wasn't at all what I expected, but it was everything I'd hoped and then some.

The flight was fine. A lovely new A330, with a camera somewhere under the plane that feeds to the video screens. I had little trouble with the altitude. The food's not great, but it's okay. The yak's pretty good, though I drew the line at sheep's lung.

What I did have trouble with was 1) beds so hard I'd have been better off on the floor and 2) the fact that I found exactly 1 can of Diet Coke in the whole city. Serious caffiene withdrawel.

I'm used to mountains that are blue and green and snow-capped. These are none of that. There is some snow on the ones we flew over, but even that is going fast (the Himalayas are losing 7% of their glaciers every year.) The ones around the city of Lhasa are unrelenting beige, like piles of gravel. The city itself is about 400,000 people (small, in China terms; they call a city of 8 million a "medium-sized city), the buildings mostly off-white, in concrete blocks or something resembling adobe.

But there the colorlessness ends. The sky is the color that the term "sky blue" was invented for, the sun strong enough to remind you there's not much between you and it. The roofs are often red; the doors almost always are, decorated with black and gold. The door jams are intricately painted, blue and green and yellow. Nearly everything is decorated wildly; decorative painting, wall murals, extraordinarily detailed thangka paintings, multi-colored silk trangles hanging from the ceilings, golden statues. The people, too; the locals wear western dress, but the pilgrims (Tibetan buddhists are expected to make one pilgrimage to Lhasa in their lives) wear traditional dress, layers and layers of colored fabrics, with three-part aprons in bright colored stripes on the women, meditation beads in their left hands, ever-spinning prayer wheels in their right. Colored prayer flags everywhere, flapping in the wind.

There are outdoor pool tables all over the place. And lots of dogs; the ones that aren't friendly are often kept on the flat roofs!

We went to the Potala Palace, which looms massively over the town, red and white, the winter palace of the Dalai Lamas, built in the sixteen hundreds. I wandered around with my mouth open. The living quarters are quite simple. Not so for the burial stupas. A couple are nearing 50 feet tall, coated in as much as 8200 pounds of gold, studded with gems that number in the hundreds of thousands.

Our youngest son (9) was a huge hit in Tibet. I don't know if they rarely get non-Tibetan children there, or if it was the fact that, with his round face and Asian eyes and summer buzz-cut, he looks like a junior monk. There are offerings in front of statues all over the building, and in one room, the guardian monk reached into an offering of candy and simply gave him a handful! He got asked routinely if he wanted to stay and become a monk.

That was only the beginning for him. A monk stopped to bless him at the monastery, placing a smudge of black on his nose. We went to the Jokhang Temple, the most sacred place for Tibetan Buddhists. It is a mad crush of tourists and pilgrims. In the courtyard outside, they are prostrating; a quick squat, hands flat on the floor and then slide forward until your forhead touches the ground. Repeat. Getting into the main temple is insane; there's only one doorway, with two lines of people trying to get in (pilgrims carrying offerings on the left, tourists in the middle) and one going out, guards and monks trying to keep everyone from getting crushed. Inside, it is dark and smoky, so much detail and color everywhere your eyes can't take it all in.

An old man sitting on the floor stopped my young son as he passed; our guide translated. He had a brass circle in his lap, and as he sat, he poured barley on top, then swept it off with circles of the side of his hand, three in one direction, three in the other. (A mandala, a meditation aid.) He showed us the raw, golf-ball sized lump on his forehead. He is a pilgrim, come from Eastern Tibet. He walked here, for 3 1/2 months, prostrating the entire way, a million prostrations; the lump is the result of his head hitting the earth so many times. Now, he said, he will do a million mandalas.

The intersection of modern and the past is jarring. The Jokhang was built in the 600s. (On the heart of a she-demon, legend says). In a side room we saw a monk in his crimson robes, pads strapped to his feet, washing the floor like he was skating, with his iPod buds in his ears.

In the Inner Sanctum, where the monks chant several times a day, it was quiet. Only three monks were there, studying quietly. One, again, stopped us to ask my son where we were from. He speaks some English, and as we turned to leave, he called my son back to give him a necklace. It is carved stone, about 2 1/2 inches long, with the image of a crane on top of a snow leopard. As he placed it aorund his neck, his cell phone went off, his ring an American pop tune.

Our guide said that the gift meant that my son has some predestined connection to Tibet, either in a previous life or that he was destined to go there. I don't know about that. All I know is I still think of the place daily, the sounds of chanting and the smell of burning incense and lamps, the wild and vibrant color against a dull background, and wonder when I'll be able to go there again.

Do you have a indelible image from a trip? Where was it?

Susie

Ya gotta have friends

Whoo! I'm a little giddy today, because I just handed in a book yesterday. That means I have written. And while there are many, many more words to be written from here on, to 'have written' is worth a bit of celebration.

When I first discovered a group of writers in the Twin Cities area (the local RWA chapter) I had just sold my first book, but I'd never really been around authors before. Never. I thought I was the only one, plunking away at my typewriter, forging out my masterpiece, ready to make a million. So when I sold that first book, I was a little itty bitty bug standing on this huge rock, with no one else to point me in the right direction, or make suggestions as to how to handle this incredible business of publishing.

And then I stepped into this wonderful sisterhood of writers.
Some were published, all were working on the story that spoke to them, and a few were struggling. They were thrilled for my sale. They understood when I asked about things such as submissions and proposals. They didn't scoff when I accidentally mentioned a favorite character in the context as a 'friend'. Their minds were busy with adventure and romance and wild and crazy sex scenes. They were my people.

I'm thankful for this group of writers. And other writer friends and acquaintances I've met along the way. I understand completely when the magazine articles state that writers are most likely to drink themselves to death or commit suicide. I can understand, but only to the point that, those must be the writers who don't have a supportive cache of fellow writers to talk them up from those writing lows.

Writers need community, whether they believe that or not. Yes, we are solitary workers. But we've got to escape that confinement once in a while. It makes for better stories. Creativity is stifled if you shelter it too much.

Anyway, I'm rambling. What I wanted to do today was send out a huge thank you to all my fellow writers. Right now, in Dallas, the big ole Romance Writers of America conference is in high gear, through the weekend. Writers are meeting, gossiping, celebrating, schmoozing, pitching; they are filling their wells. I'm sitting at home, wishing I were there, because I've come to learn, it's not so much about the workshops—its the connection with those of my ilk.

Are you a writer? Do you have fellow writers you can connect with? What about the non-writers who visit here? What kind of connections do you make to 'fill that well'?

M

Kathleen Woodiwiss

Kathleen Woodiwiss passed away on July 6^th in her hometown of Princeton, Minnesota. She’d been battling cancer for some time and that struggle intensified with the death of her son, Dorren, on June 17^th.

Unlike a lot of romance writers, I didn’t discover Kathleen’s work until adulthood, but I remember finishing THE FLAME AND THE FLOWER like it was yesterday. Her books touched so many of us in such varied ways, as readers, writers, women, lovers, and people.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the Woodiwiss family. May they have an inkling of the impact Kathleen’s life has had on this world.

Do you remember your first Woodiwiss novel?

Debra - Monday Morning Muse on MOSSY CREEK

A year or so ago, the BelleBooks editor was kicking around some ideas for the next Mossy Creek series novel and the subject of the circus and "no room at the inn" came up. (Brainstorming often goes awry.)

Just that easily Cirque d'Europa arrived in Mossy Creek on a broken-down tour bus in time for Valentine's Day weekend with no rooms at the inn. Well, once you added romance authors to the mix, no character in town was safe from Cupid's arrow. New love, old love, crazy love, sweet love, stubborn love.

# 6 in the Mossy Creek series has arrived! http://bellebooks.com/AtHomeinMossyCreek.asp

AT HOME IN MOSSY CREEK

Working in a collective novel is always...interesting. With each new book we're convinced we've come up with the new, improved and painless way to do this. And shortly thereafter we discover we haven't.

This time the editor gave us our marching orders. We knew the calendar (Valentine's), the weather, the type of circus (no animals or Ringling Brothers' clowns), that our stories had to begin on Friday, include/host a stranded member of the circus, deal with romance in some way and resolve the character problems/issues by Sunday afternoon when the circus leaves town. Of course we all had to respect the general Mossy Creek universe and established character relationships. Killing off someone's character is frowned upon.

Email will fly back and forth as one author questions another. "Hey, DebS, is it okay if I give Ida [her character] some jugglers at her house because Amos [my character] really really really wants to make a few snarky comments about her ability to juggle people...things...men?"

You see, Amos (Chief of Police and much younger than Ida, the sexy 50-ish mayor) has a thing for Ida. She (in deep denial) has been running as fast and as hard as she can from the chemistry and age-difference between them. She's been dating a gorgeous retired colonel who everyone knows isn't right for her, but the colonel's safe.

What was Deb Smith's response to my very clever juggling set-up? She jumped right on it. And then had Ida host a juggling family with a hunky, unattached older French patriarch just to tick my character off. ARRGH! Now, Amos has to deal with TWO other men in Ida's life. Not to mention her dead husband who was the love of her life.

If that didn't make things difficult enough, he's still dealing with a parrakeet so thoughtfully bequeathed to him by author Anne Bishop whose Tweedle Dee story from SUMMER IN MOSSY CREEK had me crying so hard I couldn't see my computer screen. And knowing I was stuck with that damned bird forevermore.

The moral of this story is that if you're ever in a collective novel series be sure you aren't involved with evil authors because if you are, then it's "Katie bar the door." All bets are off.

One other time a group of us were doing an online pass-the-baton story for some website and I volunteered for chapter 4. I'd rather take a beating than write love scenes (although I write excellent ones thank-you-very-much!) I figured I was safe in chapter 4. Imagine my surprise when Sandra Chastain chortled like an evil genius as she emailed me her chapter 3 which ended in a no-way-to-get-out-of-it love scene about to happen. Of course I took my revenge on the next poor author who was terrified of comedy and left her high and dry in the middle of a comic scene.

Are authors perverse? Or do we all love the practical joke? A little one-ups-manship? What's your best evil genius moment? Favorite practical joke?

Say What? By Christie

The truth is, women only speak 546 more words per day than men. This is the conclusion of an article printed today in the journal Science

After years of the popular idea (urban legend?) that women talk way more than men, two researchers from universities in Texas and Arizona conducted their own study and discovered that when they placed microphones on 396 college students for periods ranging from two to 10 days, and then sampled their conversations and calculated how many words they used in the course of a day that the score was:

Women, 16,215. Men, 15,669.

These two researchers, Matthias R. Mehl, an assistant professor of psychology at the University of Arizona, and James W. Pennebaker, chairman of the psychology department at the University of Texas, seem to feel they’ve debunked the idea that women are more talkative than men. While they realize their study looked into one age group only, these scientists think that it will prove true across other age groups as well.

Oh-kay.

Anyone care to enlighten our buddies Matt and Jim about the nuances here? There's "talk" and then there's talk. I live with three males (husband and two sons). I know the kinds of conversations they have. “I call the last frozen burrito.” “Who ate all the Bagel Bites?” “Mom, where’d you put the peanut butter?” “Don’t I have any clean socks?”

I recently asked Son 1 about the college plans of his best friend, with whom he spends hours and hours. He looked at me blankly, even though that had been the topic of conversation around our home for months. I said, disbelieving, “Well, what do you talk about?” The Wii game they’re playing. Where they want to eat. If their favorite server (the older lady who gives them double servings for free) at Panda Express works on Wednesdays. Who’s going to win at their next Texas Hold ‘Em Night.

So, here’s what I want to say to my academic friends, Matt and Jim. Um, when we think “more” talking, we mean quality talking. Get it? On the 4^th I went to a party where the guest list was my husband’s classic rock ‘n roll band and their spouses. The guys jammed. Loudly. The women, who don’t all know each other that well, talked about boob jobs, educating our children, the difficulties in creating our own separate lives beyond motherhood (the hostess is participating in a relay swim at the end of the month between Catalina Island and Long Beach—open Pacific waters!). The guys were singing “dom dom dom, dom be doobie, dom dom dom, dom be doobie…” (“Come Go With Me,” the Del Vikings.) Well, you get the picture.

So, am I all wet? In your opinion do women get to the heart of the matter much more easily (and often?) than men? (Hey, and within only 546 more words a day!)

Cindy wants to know: How superstitious are you?

How superstitious are you?

We’ve all heard the basics. "Friday the thirteenth is bad luck." "Don’t step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back." "Don’t let a black cat cross your path." "Don’t walk under a ladder. " "4-leaf clovers bring good luck."

Yeah. Basics. But I recently ran across some, shall we say, unusual superstitions that were just too good not to share. For instance:

"It is bad luck to light three cigarettes with the same match." To that I say, well, duh? Isn’t it kind of bad luck to light a cigarette at all??

"It is bad luck to cut your fingernails on Friday or Sunday. Fingernail cuttings should be saved, burned, or buried." Okay. Confession time. How many of you have fingernail burial mounds in your back yard???

"It's bad luck to say the word "pig" while fishing at sea." I am at a total loss here.

"Stabbing your needles though your yarn balls brings bad luck to anyone who wears something made from that yarn." So do be wary of those homemade sweaters, folks – especially if the gift was a surprise from someone you suspect is not your friend.

"A wish will come true if you make it while burning onions." I would be wishing that the onions were not burning. Phhheeewww!

"If you catch a falling leaf on the first day of autumn you will not catch a cold all winter." This one I’m going to try. I’ll get back to you on whether or not it works

"Rosemary planted by the doorstep will keep witches away." Ahhh … good to know.

"If you drop scissors, it means your lover is being unfaithful to you." Consequently, you pick them up and stab him with them???

"Do not place shoes upon a table, for this will bring bad luck for the day, cause trouble with your mate and you might even lose your job as a result." Big pile of trouble there so remember: No shoes on the table. But didn’t your momma teach you that when you were little? Might there be a hygiene issue at play here?

Okay people. Fess up. Are you superstitious? Let’s hear the ones that give you trouble – or pause. There have got to be stranger ones than these out there.

Happy Independence day!

No matter how you celebrate, whether with picnics, parades, fireworks, kegs or all of the previous, have a good one. I intend to work today. I've plenty to do, and the fireworks don't start until nightfall. Heck, I'm not too keen on fireworks. They're dangerous. But they are pretty. Yet, it seems, in the past, whenever we've gone to watch when the kids were younger we always ended up in the usual spot--the ditch about a quarter a mile down from the fireworks 'shoot off' sight. Ditches have mosquitoes. So I relate fireworks to itching.

But this year I made a bet with my agent. If she could get a particular item on my contract I was quite hopeful to get, then I'd honor her favorite holiday by going to the fireworks. I was quite sure I would be luxuriating at home in a warm tub tonight. Wrong. She got it. Which thrills me. And kills me.

So I'll be trekking out to camp with the mosquitoes tonight. Unless I can find a non-ditch viewing area. The things I do to honor my country's independence. :-)

So what are your favorite 4th traditions? Family picnics? Fireworks set off to music? A handful of sparklers enjoyed in the quiet of your backyard? Can you set off fireworks in your state? (They're illegal in MN, save the smaller ones that don't look like some kind of RPG or mini-rocket. Of course, that doesn't stop many from trekking to Wisconsin or North Dakota to purchase their thrills.)

M

If I hadn't been born as a human. . .

I'm working on a book that involves animals. . . lots of different animals. . . and the research is slowly taking me over. (Great Gray Owl to the right.)

I'm seeing animals and thinking animals all the time. This is particularly dangerous for me because I have a major weakness for critters of all kinds. . . and a tendency to ascribe human characteristics to animals. As a science type, I know better, but the mom-y and romance-y parts of me do it anyway. I revel in Hollywood's penchant for cute "critter" movies. Give me a Bruce Willis-voiced raccoon or a rat with a gourmet palate and I'm so in the seat with the popcorn. (My formative years included a lot of Wild Kingdom and Disney shorts involving animal journeys. Muppets? I floated through the 80's on a Jim Henson- induced cloud of "cute" endorphins! And those Dr. Doolittle movies-- am I the only one who bought the DVD's?)

Truthfully, I have kind of a schitzy approach to the critters: the science-y part of me loves learning about them and their habits and how they all fit together in the web of life, and the storyteller part of me sees the character potential in them and turns them into. . . characters!

So, when a writer friend told me I was a Golden Retriever. . . I was flattered. And a little confused. It seems there's a whole raft of personality profiling systems that use animals to give humans insight into their own inner workings. Like one test ( link below) that categorizes people into one of four character types: lion, beaver, otter, or golden retriever. If this was the test the gal who called me a Golden Retriever had in mind, I don't know whether to be pleased or outraged. Golden Retrievers are all warm and fuzzy, but they're also resistant to change and generally shortsighted. Excuse me. . . I have more than a little Beaver in me. And some Otter. And a judicious bit of Lion, thank you. (Take the test at: http://www.new-life.net/persnty1.htm )

The old American Indian practice of having an animal "guide" appeals to me. I'm not sure how it worked among The People, but if memory serves, the elders helped the young ones discern their animal guide or spirit as they came of age. I like that idea. I think we should all have an animal guide. . . which could help us understand and focus ourselves and also anchor us to the rest of the natural world.
I think if I had an animal guide, I'd want it to be either an owl or a jaguar. But I suspect that if my family and the village elders had given me one, it would have probably been a ringtail or a raccoon. . . something suitably inquisitive and full of mischief and mildly annoying. But there are days, I feel like a pocket gopher or the little rabbit cousin, the American Pika. . .

I'm a great admirer of wolves-- which are very social creatures. They mate for life, you know. As for domestic animals. . . I'm a dog lover. One one of the tests I took recently, I discovered I'm a Border Collie. . . which is fine with me. We had border collies when I was growing up and they were wonderful beings. . . smart, loyal, tireless. And as time goes on, I've developed a fondness for moose. . . in spite of their surly attitudes. There's something both stately and also deeply comic about them. . . a contradiction I find fascinating.

What about you? What kind of animals interest you? Keep any animal "totems" around your house? What kind of animal guide would you/did you give to your children? What animals do you think you most resemble? Which are you drawn to? If you had to BE an animal, which one would you choose?