No matter where you go, there you are... Date: 12/22/2009 Do you ever want to be someone else? Just for a day? For a week? What if you wanted to be someone else for a lifetime? Could you do it? Could you walk away from everything and everyone that is familiar and actually start over? If you did that, wouldn't you be taking yourself with you? And isn't that the whole point--to get away from yourself and the world you've built around yourself? Choices. If you change your mind can you change your life? If you change your life can you change yourself? Can you change yourself without changing your life? Can you quit smoking if everyone else in the house smokes? Can you give up drugs if all your friends are using? Can you turn off the TV and exercise away from your very own couch potatoes? What if people can't really change? What if I'm done? I'm baked. If I haven't figured something out by now I don't really hope to. I’m not suddenly going to become punctual, or organized, or fearless. I'm not suddenly going to become a world traveling, multi-lingual, mountain-climbing adventurer. (Really? That's a bummer.) Or am I? What does a world-traveling, multi-lingual, mountain-climbing adventurer have that I haven't got? I can buy a ticket. I can learn a language. I have a passport (I even used it once!). What's stopping me? Oh, yeah. Me. I wonder if I can change that . . . put your hands up and scream... Date: 12/13/2009 This week I attended the holiday party of my local Romance Writers of America chapter. They are a great bunch of gals and I always have a wonderful time with them. There is a tradition at this party to sit in a circle and offer a writing tip to your fellow writers. I was bursting with things to say. I could have talked for hours about what I've learned about writing, about myself as a writer, about the industry. Boil it all down to one writing tip? Impossible. So I decided to give one really useful how-to tip and let it go, but it's been on my mind. Is there really any way to help another writer? It's such a solitary life. Just you and the contents of your head, good, bad and self-loathing. Does everyone have to learn it like I did, by trial and error (and there were some whoppers!), working their way through the hours (days, weeks, months, years) at the keyboard, learning when to listen to themselves and when to tell themselves to shut up, writing contract to contract, royalty to royalty, never really knowing what the next year will bring? Does everyone have to feel it all for themselves, the kick when they know they've got the chapter right, the freefall freedom of letting a story run on its own, the giddy sensation of finishing, really finishing, and the unbelievable heart-stopping thrill of seeing a book on the shelf with their own name on the cover? The high when people say they like it? The crash when some reviewer tears it apart? Can you really prepare anyone for a roller-coaster ride if they've never been on one before? Can you imagine the way it feels just by having someone tell you about it? It's the best ride in the world. It's the hardest life I've ever lived. I love it. I hate it. Sometimes both at the same moment. I could quit it but would it quit me? I hope I never find out. I think I need a Doctor... Date: 12/2/2009 I'm in love. I'm in love with "Dr. Who." Not the character, though he is marvelous. Not the actor, David Tennant--he's cute and absolutely brilliant, but I'm of Donna Noble's "too skinny" opinion. I'm in love with the SHOW, specifically the writing. In my dreams I write like that--a clever, romantic, witty, sexy journey following one marvelous character through adventure after adventure. I know we all grew up watching old "Dr. Who" episodes on PBS. If you remember it at all fondly, you have to give the new "Who" a chance to blow your mind. It's still campy and cheesy and fun, but now it's also slick, sexy and hip. David Tennant plays the Doctor as a genius hyperactive, a mixture of Elvis Costello cool and Danny Kaye physicality with a dash of Stephen Hawking intellect. In the first season, the fine period actor, Chris Eccleston, was a more somber, war-torn version. He was also really excellent, but in the finest Doctor tradition completely different and yet the same. The first season also introduces Rose Tyler as the Doctor's Companion, a spunky, Cockney mall-rat who dreams of a bigger life than that of a simple shopgirl. As Rose, Brit pop star Billie Piper quite simply rocks. So start at the beginning. All first four seasons are available on DVD, plus do not, I repeat, DO NOT miss the specials. But back to the writing . . . Drama. Romance. Giddy fantasy. Stylish humor. Frantic action worthy of a Marvel Comic. This BBC show has everything I love all wrapped up in an imagination so weird and wonderful that I'm in awe of it. Russell T. Davies, I want to have your baby. Especially if he has brains, glasses and some really great hair! Barring that, I want to write with you. Seriously. Any chance you're hiring? Think of it--you, me and Sarah Jane . . . I saw a Ghost (Ranch)... Date: 11/28/2009 I live in New Mexico. I've lived here for more than a year. So why has it taken me this long to visit the home of one of my idols? Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch is only two hours away. Twenty thousand acres of lovely desert, with mesas and canyons and rivers. It is, in a word, transcendent. I could write up the visuals for you but how can I describe the silence? It's so deep that you can actually hear your own thoughts as if you spoke out loud. I woke up every day before sunrise. People who know me can't believe that, since I am the original Night Owl. I dreamed entire lifetimes every night. I actually didn't write a word until the day I left. I couldn't muster up any finer ambition than to simply BE. I read, I painted, I walked. I thought. I didn't think. It was like cleaning out the attic of my mind. It was marvelous. Practically, Ghost Ranch functions as a conference and spirituality center/bed & breakfast. It has a couple of museums and a library, which I didn't visit because I couldn't bear to spend one moment indoors. There are several levels (literally) of housing, from hillbilly Hilton down below to relatively posh up on the mesa. Our party took over most of an L-shaped block with a comfy common room and a view that went on for hundreds of miles. It was extremely clean, comfortable and affordable albeit run in true New Mexico tradition--that is, easy-going to the edge of incompetence. Patience with the management is required. Also, the food sucks. Really. The next time I go, I will bring croissants, goat cheese and fruit and skip the dining hall entirely. All of the above can be easily laughed off because it is so very, intensely beautiful there that an attitude of gratitude seems to come naturally. I really can't blame the people managing the ranch. If I lived out there, I probably wouldn't answer my phone either. I'd be outside, listening to the silence. We had a little booksigning... Date: 11/14/2009 Okay, I know I do all right in the career department, but it is very reassuring to know that someone out there is doing more than all right. I did a booksigning with Sherrilyn Kenyon and the whole world showed up! It was crazy. Some of the gazillion people actually did show up to see me, or at least I sold a few books, but most of the crowd came to see SK, of course. It wasn't a booksigning, it was a Happening! (does that date me to the seventies?) Surreal is one word. So is Mob. None of my shots came out, but I do have one picture sent to me by Amanda McCabe, who also signed that day. I'm the tall one! A Fiesta for the senses! Date: 10/9/2009 Have you ever been surrounded by hot air balloons? HUNDREDS of hot air balloons? It's just like being inside a giant gumball machine. Okay, I don't really know if there were hundreds. It might have only been a hundred and a half. All I know is that the Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque is an exercise in childish delight unsurpassed by anything except possibly my first experience of FAO Schwartz in New York. Balloons everywhere, all around us. There were beautiful balloons, in every imaginable colorful pattern. There were silly balloons, like Darth Vader's helmet, fully guarded by none other than real Storm Troopers! There were goofy balloons, like the giant sunshine face that looks like it came off a cereal box. They poofed up and flew away before our eyes as the sun rose. Hot chocolate was had. Then the balloons came back, racing madly in close formation, dipping dangerously down to drop a ribboned weight precisely in a target square, then rising high again. It was like a strange, airborne river of colors. The whole thing happens so quickly that you don't realize how exhausting it is until things break up and you make your way back to your car. I'd risen insanely early to get there for the good stuff and then spent my morning with my head tilted backward and my jaw slack in wonder. I admit that after the Balloon Fiesta, I was more than ready for a Balloon Siesta! missing summer already Date: 8/29/2009 I love all the seasons and I am definitely capable of tiring of constant heat, but this summer simply didn't last long enough. Yes, it's still very warm during the days (high 80s, low 90s) but the nights now require blankets and the adventures require arranging around school schedules. Where did it go? I feel like school just got out! Most moms will probably relate to the feeling of giddy freedom of not having to conform to the public school system's timetable. Wanna sleep late? Sure! Wanna stay up and watch that movie? Okay! Wanna have cold supper and hike the volcano? Let's go! I LOVE that. It was the last summer in a way. My oldest is graduating high school this coming year. Will summer trips still matter? Will college work and fun consume every weekend? So what did we do with our last summer? Well, now that I think about it, there were some memorable times. Once while driving across the state, we spontaneously decided to hang a right into the desert and not go home for three more days. No map, no plan, no clock. Just backroads, hidden treasures and funky old roadside stops. Okay, I guess we did have fun after all! I can see for miles... Date: 8/18/2009 There is nothing like realizing one's insignificance to shrink problems down to a manageable size. There is a spot where I can stand on top of a mountain in New Mexico where, if I turn in a slow circle, I can actually see a 360 degree view of the world. Down below, the people disappear, the buildings disappear and the city lights are a sprinkled blur. For all the miles of vista it is still only my little corner of the world, but it makes me realize something that sitting behind my desk can't. The world is vast, for all that the internet seems to make it smaller. I remember that in this vast world there are so many people and so many different kinds of people that the problems of one chronically disorganized writer/mom aren't even blips on the global radar screen. So I return to my desk serene, despite the encroaching deadline, despite the eternally messy house and despite the chaotic stresses of raising two teenagers. This charming aftereffect can last for days. Or not. One of those teenagers is driving! pets and permanence Date: 9/15/2008 As anyone who has followed my blog for while knows, I have moved around a lot. In fact, in all my forty-mumble years, I have never lived anywhere for more than five of them. Usually, it was only two or three. I have sold more furniture than Goodwill and found new homes for more pets than the SPCA. Knowing that I could only move the "big animals" (dogs and cats), I tended not to branch out to birds and reptiles too often. Now, however, we're home. We're here in New Mexico and we're staying. For the first time I can commit to a bird that lives for more than two years. I can get a reptile that might actually grow to more than six inches long. My cockatiel is named "Mason" after the unlucky character in "Dead Like Me". He's a bit of a spaz. My eldest daughter named her new rosey boa "Taboo" and my youngest named her beloved baby rat "Mia Michaels" after her favorite choreographer. Along with our fluffy mutt "Rita" (named after the Romance Writers award I didn't win!) and the koi in our pond outside, "Mica" and "Tigger", we make quite a household. A nice big PERMANENT household! watermelon mountains... Date: 9/1/2008 When I was a kid, my mother packed us all in the car and drove us from Louisiana to California to visit her sister every summer. This was a very long drive--days of HoJo's and "punchbuggy" and using gas station bathrooms. In general I hated it, even though it gave me many uninterrupted hours to read. (Back in the Jurassic Era, there was an axle of some kind running down the center of the car, making the center of the back seat feel like sitting on concrete. I was the youngest of five, so guess who had to sit there for days?) I have only a few really good memories of those trips. One of them is of floating in a turquoise motel pool, watching the sun set on mountains. It turned them bright red while the sky turned purple and orange. It was the most beautiful sunset I'd ever seen. I asked my mother where we were, since the days tended to run together and keep-track-of-the-states had stopped being fun years before. She told me we were in Albuquerque. I decided right then and there that someday I would come back to Albuquerque and maybe even live there. About fifteen years ago, a good friend moved to Albuquerque and I proceeded to visit her as often as possible, falling more deeply in love with the city and the desert every time. About ten years ago, another very good friend moved to Albuquerque, making the city even more attractive. Last year, I realized that as a self-supporting writer I could live anywhere I want. I could even leave the country if I wanted! With the entire world to choose from, I decided that the only one place would do. I moved to Albuquerque in June of this year. Those bright red mountains? They're called the Sandia Mountains, which is Spanish for "watermelon." When the setting sun strikes them just the right way, the sandstone and granite reflect the perfect red of the heart of a watermelon! making the rounds Date: 8/28/2008 There is a disturbing trend in my house . . . dead critters. Two in the last week. If everything happens in threes, then I should expect another pet to bite the big one any minute. I find that I check on them obsessively. Rat? Is it sleeping or . . . (poke, poke) . . .ouch, okay good, still alive in all your whiskery, naked-tailed glory. Snake? Oh crap, where is it? Did it get out? (lift lid, paw around terrarium) Eww, okay, you're still doin' your snakey thing. Bird? (listen carefully) Yep, still screeching along to his favorite new age music playing on XM. Dog? (turn and trip over dog) She's right at my feet, following me from cage to cage as usual, probably hoping I'll forget to tightly shut the rat's door. She looks good, tail wagging, eyes bright, striving to telepathically communicate "Biscuit. Biiiisssscuuiiit." Great. That's everyone, still gnawing, slithering, fluttering and licking their own butts. Sigh of relief. I can relax . . . ...until I can't fight the urge to check on them again 45 minutes later. The suspense is killing me. Uh-oh...maybe it's me that's next! Me and the NYT... Date: 3/31/2008 People are wondering why I haven't blogged about the fact that DESPERATELY SEEKING A DUKE debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list. Maybe I haven't blogged about it because I'm still having trouble believing it. The. New. York. Times. Bestseller. List. I can't take it in. I mean, I laughed, I cried, I jumped up and down, but somewhere inside me I can't believe it happened to me. I'm just me. I'm just a mom with great kids and disobedient hair. I can't keep pantyhose intact for more than half an hour. I'm always late to the dentist/doctor/orthodontist because I never seem to know what time it is. I can't ever find anything in my closet that looks quite right. (someone please nominate me for What Not To Wear!! Seriously.) How can a person who is sort of a (generally happy) mess become a NYT bestselling author?? And then I think...well, I did it and I don't know, so maybe no one knows and it's all just some cosmic brain fart, soon to return to the natural order of things where it's Nora Roberts, John Grisham and the latest Oprah pick on the NYT and not me. In the meantime, maybe I should commemorate the occasion with something from Tiffany's...just in case it never happens again! ;) What do you think? Fool for love... Date: 3/12/2008 Today I read a review of "Desperately Seeking a Duke" in which the reviewer called my plot "loopy and far-fetched." I smiled. Damn skippy! I am not here to provide a mundane play-by-play of life in 1815. I am here to use (and abuse! ) the setting of 1815 England to entertain, divert, turn on and reward hardworking, multitasking, can't-believe-she-can-do-all-that women worldwide with some steamy love scenes (not to mention the fantasy of a rich, handsome, heroic, sexy guy who values real women with real bodies and real opinions--not empty-headed stick insects with bad boob jobs--and who thinks, and talks, and then thinks some more. A man like that? Now we're getting farfetched! I think it might be easier just to high five... Date: 2/4/2008 Now, class, Missy Mannerisms is going to introduce you to the proper ettiquette in extending your good wishes to the newly-engaged couple. Apparently, it is not "done" to congratulate the bride-to-be. One must say "Best wishes" or "Good luck." If one says "Congratulations" one is implying that the lady has succeeded in an endeavor of some sort. (In other words, she finally bagged one.) To infer that a lady of breeding and culture would ever stoop to so lowly a thing as active pursuit would be an insult. (I have one word for you--Bridezilla!) A gentleman, however, is assumed to have been performing his traditional alpha male duty as mighty hunter and has at last succeeded in his quest. (In other words, he finally ran out of excuses not to commit.) To wish him "Good luck" or "Best wishes" implies that he is not, in fact, in control of his own destiny. (I have one word for you--Whipped!) Contrary to popular belief, (and all evidence since the dawn of time) it is the male of the species who is the pursuer and the female who is the pursued. Men have a burning need to get married and start their families. Women are pale and delicate creatures without anything so tacky as "burning needs." Women are the trophy, the prize, the lovely and desirable ends to their means . . . and men are the heroic providers who have finally earned the right to reproduce. (And anyone who says anything to the contrary is going to be thoroughly and completely b*tch-slapped! You ruffians got that?) Er, thank you, class. I think we should meet again later, when Missy Mannerisms hasn't been mixing medications. Here she is...again Date: 1/28/2008 I was promised a new, modern take on Miss America. I was promised a refreshed, sassier and more worldly icon of the female ideal. I was promised, repeatedly, that it wasn't going to be my mama's Miss America anymore. Okay. Aside from the fact that a swimsuit competition can never be anything but objectifying--a test of physical fitness? My jiggly butt!--and aside from the fact that obviously plastic surgery is the new black, I sat down and gave Miss America another chance. The b*tch let me down again. Not only were the only cool chicks eliminated in the first rounds--Miss Alaska, call me! We gotta talk, girl! Miss Utah, you got hosed, babe!--but all the women of color were wiped out shortly thereafter. Then, bye-bye brunettes! Finally, after what can only be described as a concentrated campaign of bland forgetability, a vacuous blonde--I don't even remember her state!--was chosen to represent the new, modern, fresh "It Girl" of America. Whereupon she was crowned by--you got it!--last year's identical vacuous blonde! At the moment of exchanging the crowns, I literally couldn't tell which girl was which! Yeah, you pageant people really know how to shake things up. Slow down before you hurt yourselves. Theeds of change... Date: 1/21/2008 I got lost today. This isn't unusual for me. I seem to spend a lot of time unintentionally following the road less traveled. Better yet, I wasn't responsible because I wasn't the one driving! That's always nice, because it's usually my fault. I found two treasures on this less traveled road. First we stumbled onto a house at a dead end by the old railroad tracks. Someone had, apparently over the course of a lifetime, collected dozens of railroad sign posts, warning lights and bars. These all stood artistically arranged in one not very large yard. It was a forest of metal trees--a glade of giants with three vertical eyes and long yellow-and-black striped arms. Amazing. I couldn't stop smiling at the uninhibited absurdity of it. The second treasure was a little neighborhood lemonade-type stand. Two boys about eight and six wearing glasses and expressions of serious entrepreneurship were selling brown lunch bags full of tangerines from their own tree. 50 cents a bag for tangerines that are so full of life they probably glow in the dark! "Would you like to try a free thample of juithe?" Are you kidding? I love juithe the way the guy down the street loves the railroad! Just before we drove away with our bags of spherical sunshine and our free samples, the boys' younger sister, a waifish cotton-candy haired imp of probably three who seemed as free-spirited as the boys were serious, went up on tiptoe to impart to me some very important information. "Watch out! They have theeds!" Sweetie, all the best things in life do. toad rage... Date: 1/14/2008 Here is another intriguing writing exercise from ROOM TO WRITE by Bonnie Goldberg. In case you were in the restroom during previous explanations. I am trying to cultivate my journaling abilities (ie blogging!) and I am starting out by choosing topics from this excellent book. It is described as "Daily invitations to a writer's life" and that's exactly what it does. It invites you to write. I was so interested in some of the things brought out of me by these exercises that I decided to share some of them. This one is titled "Animal Spirit." You are to describe yourself as a creature, any creature, that embodies your characteristics. I never saw this one coming! "I might be a toad. I am slow in the cold and I sit a lot but I spend most of that time thinking. I am not that beautiful to you unless you are also a toad. Then I'm gorgeous. I am not the one who gives warts but some people act as though they still believe that. I have been known to carry cooties (when I was twelve) but I can still cast a mean toadstool! The ones who see me react to me in some way but many people don't see me at all. I'm not the shiny bright bird or the colorful fish or even the dangerous snake. I am so quiet and watchful and I am also the agent of change. I am the first one to leave a toxic environment but am the last one to flee the drought because I believe in the rain." (end of page) Now, if I'd taken time to think of it, I would have chosen something much prettier and more charismatic, but I was trying to just open up to my own thoughts. The toad was the first thing that popped into my head so I went with it . . . and it's really very much the way I am! (the cootie thing--those were hard days. Does anyone ever get over middle school?) word association... Date: 1/7/2008 There is a marvelous book for anyone who wants to write, even if it's just to work on your journaling (or in my case, my blogging!). ROOM TO WRITE by Bonni Goldberg. I've decided to share some of the exercises here in order to show how well this works. The first exercise I tried was called "Diving In." I am the classic slow-starter. I'm like the dog that has to walk around the bed three times before lying down. I almost never just dive in, not even in simple tasks like doing dishes. I have to "prepare" by lining everything up by dish type. I know, pathetic, right? In "Diving In" you are to practice free-writing. No reading it over, no editing, no stopping until you reach the end of the page. The prompts given are a choice of several words that have more than one meaning. I chose "bear." "Bear it all. Bear so much. Bear it until it breaks you. Bear is a female word, from 'bearing children' to 'Mama Bear' to the protective rage of the female grizzly. Bear and bore and borne. We are the beasts of burden in this world. We are the bearers of good intentions and the bearers of bad tidings. It is the women who gather round in times of trial. It is in our bundt cakes and our casseroles and our plates and plates and plates of cookies. We are the bears and we are the bearers. We are the born and the keepers of the unborn. A woman's eggs are hers from before birth. You carry your children with you always--in fact you also carry your grandchildren when you carry your daughters--" (end of page) Wow. What a rush that was. I hardly punctuated at all, just let it flow out. And what an interesting place to get to! I learned about the fact that women are born with all our eggs in place years ago (which is why we must be so careful about environmental influences like chemicals or radiation at the dentist) but I never thought about the fact that if that is so, then our daughters will also and so we will be, for a little while, bearing our own grandchildren! I can't get over that. What a wild, crazy concept! I was a grandmother when I was 27! legend of the fall Date: 1/1/2008 In New York, a man fell 47 stories from a window-washing scaffold. He lived. His doctors say it is possible he will even walk again. They called it "a medical miracle." Why is it a "medical" miracle? In what way is it a miracle of medicine? Man falls. Man lands. Man lives. No doctors in sight for quite a while, I'm sure. Doctors, I would imagine, have a hard time with simply saying "miracle." Miracles fall into another category than ordinary results. Miracles are out of their control. So maybe if they put the word "medical" in front of it, it becomes something they can wrap their minds around, something that they caused and controlled. I believe in many things. I don't believe in other things. I must believe, because the evidence is so clear and obvious, in miracles. Real, actual, crazy unlikely miracles. Please, don't water it down. Don't take partial credit or bask in reflected glory. In this world terrible things happen every day--random, awful, crazy unlikely bad things. It only makes sense that the reverse must also be true. Plus, it makes it a lot easier for me to sleep at night! EVERYTHING I EVER NEEDED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM AMERICAN IDOL Date: 6/4/2007 The funny thing about reality shows is that truth really is stranger than fiction. I could never imagine a character like Sanjaya (and get away with it!) or predict what those people-who-vote are going to do. So I watch and learn... LIFE LESSON #1:They can't buy it if you don't sell it. Audition. Propose. Offer. Whatever it is that you want in life, go out and try to get it. A lot of people think about auditioning for American Idol. Jordin Sparks did it and they sent her packing. So she did it again in the next city. If they'd turned her away I'm willing to bet she would have tried again and again. LIFE LESSON #2: Label yourself first, or someone else will do it for you. Brandon Rogers (remember him? Barely, right?) failed to make a lasting impression. He's handsome, talented and experienced. Yet he was gone in no time. Why? By not deciding precisely who he was as a singer, by not committing to a clear style, a central vision of himself, he ended up looking indecisive and forgettable. We never really got a taste of him as a performer so we assumed he had no flavor. LIFE LESSON #3: Win with style. Lose with even more style. Graciousness is never wasted. People who accept both winning and losing with gracious style gain respect. Storming out in tearful or angry disappointment just makes you look like a delusional spoiled brat. Shouting out sour grapes as you kick and punch the walls on your way out the door just makes everyone glad that's where you're headed. LIFE LESSON #4: Style can take you only so far. Haley Scarnato and the hot pants. Need I say more? LIFE LESSON #5: Substance can take you only so far. Develop more than one side of yourself. Melinda Doolittle is incredibly talented. Yet it never failed that I decided to hunt for something in the fridge while she sang. Why was that? She'd developed her voice to an amazing extent, yet rarely did she entertain me as a performer. She liked to do certain movements that became repetitious (singing sideways?) and almost never did anything but walk around. She eventually began to dress better, but too little too late. LIFE LESSON #6: Make sure you're in the right race. Lakisha, Lakisha, Lakisha. If this was a soul contest, she would have scraped the floor with Jordin and used Melinda to wipe up after her. Unfortunately, AI is a search for a moldable young talent who will make record companies lots of money on the mainstream pop charts. Lakisha is none of those things. She is a woman who has seen the real gritty world out there. She is raw and earthy and passionate--none of which is terribly marketable to people who still listen to "Hit Me Baby One More Time." LIFE LESSON #7: Never believe your own press. This means you, Sanjaya. Those votes weren't real. They weren't laughing with you, they were laughing at you. Maya Angelou says, "Never pick it up. Never put it down." Fame isn't real, either the good kind or the bad kind. It's not the fire, it's not even the smoke. It's just the smell. LIFE LESSON #8: Breaking the rules can get you higher. Blake broke the rules as often as humanly possible--but he did it with intention and intelligence. He knows precisely who he is and although he's certainly willing to stretch, he's also very sharp about how far. He knew he'd look ridiculous singing certain kinds of music as is so he took what he had to work with and made it as close to what he needed as he could. Take a good long look at the rules. Figure out which ones make sense and which ones don't. Then break as necessary. LIFE LESSON #9: Breaking the rules can get you shot down. Or If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Poor Chris Sligh. I absolutely loved his rough, sexy voice and his even sexier irreverence. I'm sure a lot of female fans felt the same way...or at least they might have if this was a contest of talent alone. But Chris wanted to stand out so he tried to do what Blake did so well--remixing and rearranging--and he failed at it miserably. "Endless Love" is a very passionate song which he could have belted out quite convincingly without looking like an idiot. He should have sung his guts out and let it stand. LIFE LESSON #10: Be careful what you wish for. Be sure that what you're fighting for is really what you want and how you want it. I have fantasized about auditioning for AI--or I would if I were younger. Yet I know that it wouldn't really be what I wanted and I wouldn't be what they wanted. Aside from talent, Jordin Sparks won on the merits of being a VERY GOOD GIRL. They said sing like Martina McBride, she did it. They said sing like Christina Aquilera, she did it. I hope she likes it that way, because now that she's won, lovely young Jordin had better continue to be a VERY GOOD GIRL. She will be told what to sing and how to sing it. She will be told where to go and when to go there. I'm willing to bet that even her very compliant nature will eventually tire of it. Her contract might just start looking like a prison sentence by the time it runs out. Sick'em, Jack! Date: 4/1/2007 Brilliant idea # 9,061--since they make medications for children that taste like candy, why don't they make medications for dogs that taste like last week's roadkill? The nastier the better. If I know my dog, he would find that pretty freakin' irresistable. Which would be nice. At the moment, medicating my forty-plus pound hyperactive easily-spooked Wheaten terrier is like a gory final match of the WWF. It usually ends with a pin--it's just not always Jack who ends up on the mat. Whoever came up with the method of (and I quote) "just slip your fingers into his mouth with one hand and pop the pill in with the other" was either a person who'd never actually encountered a real dog, or else was a seriously evil and disturbed individual. Slip my fingers into his mouth? There are teeth there! Big ones! This is a forty-pound TERRIER. There is a reason why terriers are proverbial! The Jaws of Life cannot open this dog's mouth if he wants it closed! Okay, if no one wants to buy the pills in the flavor of freeway fun-steaks, then how about making it simple? Cheese-flavored pills. Or--oh, this is brilliant!--what about CAT-flavored?! Now I’m thinkin'! smoke and mirrors... Date: 3/1/2007 I like to think I'm a free spirit, but when I peel away the layers (I'm an onion! Or maybe I'm a parfait--I love Shrek.) I find that I care very much what other people think. I don't like it when I get caught out in the hotel hallway in my jammy pants and I don't like it when the "hot moms" (why are they all so young?) slide me those superior glances when I pick up my kid in baggy sweats and yesterday's hair. There's a character in the book The Jane Austen Book Club who has removed all the mirrors from her house. She literally does NOT look in the mirror before she leaves her house! This stunned me. What would life be like without mirrors? I like this question, because most of the time I feel really good about myself. I'm funny, I'm mostly healthy, my life is full of love and prosperity and silly dogs. I'm good at my job and motherhood (mostly) and friendship(again, mostly). Yet whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror, I feel a real hit of disappointment. I'm getting older. There's no way around the fact that what was once cute is now jowly and what was once curvy is now a bit baggy. I don't believe in alterations for myself--everybody makes their own decisions there, you'll get no judgment from me!--so what I've got is what I've got. So--no mirrors? Ever? Can I ban them from public places, too? What about the reflections in store windows--we'd better do something about those, too (God I hate those--is there some building code that requires that all shop windows add forty pounds??). And I guess I'd better stay away from the water . . . Okay, so maybe this won't end up being a world-wide movement. I do have a plan, however . . . You know how the builders of all our homes like to glue those ginormous bathroom mirrors to the wall--which we don't need and they just do to make their puny bathrooms look bigger? And you know that really awful feeling when you flick the light on in the middle of the night to see if someone left the seat up and you get a lovely view of yourself all blinky and puffy and crusty-eyed, wearing those jammies that really need to get thrown out before someone mistakes you for a homeless StayPuft-marshmallow-man impersonator? Well, THAT mirror is coming down for sure! Yessir. Buh-bye. Leeeetle mirrors are the answer--just big enough to pluck eyebrows and put on mascara, which I do every six months whether I need it or not! (just kidding) (mostly) Bald is beautiful? Date: 2/3/2007 Last week started with a blur of household activity--the cleaners were coming (Yes, I hire it out to ladies I like to call the DustBunny Brigade. I used to have white guilt about this situation, but then I realized that my housecleaner's car is nicer than mine. A lot nicer. Like, maybe-I'm-in-the-wrong-business nicer. Then again, I have no aptitude. One should always play to one's talents.) and there were two mini-divas who needed to go to the orthodontist. We're almost done with braces!! Money well spent, I tell you. I can't believe that little wires and brackets and rubber bands could do so much. I got paid this week, which I love. A writer's income is irregular and you never really know what you're going to get. I've been haunting the mailbox for a few weeks now and it finally came! I like being paid. It erases that weird feeling that I sometimes get that I am vainly imagining this whole career and all I'm doing is typing into some black hole of delusion. Maybe I need to get out more . . . Jack hurt himself somehow this week. He began to hold up his left rear paw, refusing to step on it. The vet said to watch it for a few days so I have been. It's much better now, but I hate that feeling. I don't want to "watch it". I want to rush him off to a qualified medical professional and get it fixed. Now. Immediately. Still, he's obviously better so the hands-off approach seems to work. But my constant worry might explain what happened last night . . . He's a curly haired dog (a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier), something I haven't really experienced before. He was closely clipped when we got him, so we've watched with amazement while he goes 'fro on us. Unfortunately, no one thought fit to tell us that he would go 'fro all over . . . including on his butt. Without giving away too much information, let me just say that his fur resembles velcro and velcro tends to hold on to . . . well, stuff. Said stuff then tends to travel back into the house . . . and onto the furniture . . . and the bed . . . Time to clip the aforementioned butt. Immediately. Emergency measures were required. There was no time to make an appointment at the groomers! I had no choice but to fling myself into the madness armed with an old beard trimmer and the confidence that comes from desperation. Action, at last! Then I stepped back to inspect my handiwork. Uh, oh. Um . . . well . . . I had to face facts. I'd gone too far in my zeal to solve this problem. From a rear view, Jack now bears an uncanny resemblence to a baboon. The poor baby seems to realize this and will now turn in shame-faced circles in an effort to make sure that no one gets a rear view. I could offer excuses. It was the middle of the night . . . the clippers were too dull/sharp/clippery . . . I couldn't get a good look at what I was doing . . . I had panicked, thinking of my brand new king sized comforter . . .(sigh) Oh, well. Fur grows back, right? Tae Kwon Don't? Date: 12/11/2006 I have fond memories of one of my brothers in a white uniform, learning high kicks and looking impressive and powerful. I remember the day that I learned that a sweet, shy classmate of mine was a black-belt in judo. It wasn't a real stretch for me to put a child of mine into martial arts--unless you know what an anarchist I am at heart. I don't even really believe in the structure of public school, much less in a stylized, cultist, militaristic method of combat! Me--pacifist, hippie-chick me! But she wanted it. Her eyes went bright the moment we entered the studio and only got brighter the longer we were there. She was home at last, in some way that I'll never relate to but could only observe as, for the first time, she made a choice as a complete individual. She donned the dobok and the white belt and dove in. In less than a year, she has risen to a green belt and is the black-belt training program. She idolizes a local fourteen-year-old world champion and practices moves in the middle of the living room with a staff and nunchucks (I don't even know how to spell that!). This--my sweet, tentative baby!--is a whole new girl. She's taller now and doesn't look nearly as adorable and lost in her oversized uniform. Instead, she's beginning to look lean and a tiny bit lethal. I'm so proud and yet sort of lost. This is a path I've never walked. I hate competition against anyone but myself. I love to be active, but I couldn't hit anyone unless I was frightened for my life. There is always the temptation to steer her away from it. I probably could if I tried. I could claim it cost too much, or I could make sure she didn't go often enough to keep up her interest, or any number of manipulative things parents might do to redirect a child's obsession. But then I would be doing the very thing I hated the most as a child. I don't know if it was the fact that I was the fifth child and there was no more money, or just no more energy, but I was not encouraged to follow any passion that required parental involvement or financing. I don't spend much time looking backward but it has occurred to me to wonder where I would be now if I'd had more opportunities. So we do the driving and the paying and the encouraging. I watch, stunned and awed by her growing grace and power. I worry that she'll get some message from the under text of bowing and obeying and striking other people. I wonder if maybe she's the smart one and I'm the one who will never get it right because I didn't have this chance. Mostly I just shake my head and cheer her on at the same moment. She may be my baby, but she's quickly becoming her own woman. Inner whatsit? Date: 12/6/2006 People are always talking about the "inner child" and how you shouldn't say mean things to yourself because your inner child will take it so personally. That makes sense in some ways, except that I don't think I'm emotionally advanced enough to have an inner child. I think I have more of an . . . inner puppy. Fine. Laugh all you want but keep reading. Puppies don't hear words, they only hear the tone of voice. Puppies only understand the very simplest of commands and gestures. Puppies only have two emotional speeds--complete bliss or cowering fear. Now, I've learned over the years of having dogs that scolding a puppy doesn't work all that well (usually the only real result is piddle on the rug), but you can make one into a happy slave with praise. So, in order to encourage this simple-minded inner being of mine, I try to keep things very basic. I don't give intellectual praise, or even constructive criticism. "Good girl!" is all it really takes. I ran halfway around the park--"Good girl!" I sent in my very late manuscript--"Good girl!" I cooked something resembling dinner at something resembling dinner time--"Good girl!" Ears lift, eyes brighten and little pink tongue hangs out. Works every time. The result is that it gets easier and easier to put on the running shoes in the morning. It gets easier and easier to sit down at the computer every day. It gets easier and easier to face another evening of cooking (okay, this one's taking a little longer, but hey--I'm a work-in-progress!). So be nice to your inner puppy. Raise its fuzzy little self-esteem with some enthusiastic props for even the smallest of accomplishments. You mailed out the bills on time--"Good girl!" You remembered to pick up the dry cleaning--"Good girl!" You checked my blog--"Good girl!" Doggie Breath Date: 12/5/2006 There's a new man in my life. His name is Jack and he's 14--in dog years. We've been on a waiting list for a while for a dog like Jack. He's a Wheaten Terrier (one of the larger terrier breeds) which we chose for personality and their non-shedding quality. We could've gone out and bought a high-priced puppy, but I'm a mutt girl by nature. I've never had a dog who wasn't a rescue. My escalating allergies meant no more mutts, but rescuing an unwanted pure-bred was something I could live with. We were chosen by application by a regional Wheaton rescue group, since we are a very dog-friendly and experienced household without tiny children. There's nothing wrong with Jack's personality--he's not aggressive at all--but he simply had no clue about living with others, human or animal. Apparently, he was originally owned by a couple who kept him in the backyard, alone, for 2 years. No training, no real attention, no socialization. Then they divorced. Good-bye dog. He spent the next few months in a posh (seriously--I wish I had it so nice!) doggie kennel and spa in Napa, which is part of the rescue group. They breed and show Wheatens, so Jack was at last able to learn to be a dog. He was so solitary that at first he didn't even know how to play with the other dogs. He got a crash course living with several other dogs and soon caught on--tongues are for hanging out, tails are for wagging, butts are for sniffing. Although he doesn't have a tail. His was docked, Wheaten-style. So in we come, making the drive one afternoon to get our new dog on a trial basis. On first glance, I didn't like him. He just didn't connect somehow. My children did, however and he seemed to think they were all right--but there was something missing. He mostly walked around us and sniffed things he must have already sniffed before, obviously NOT into us at all. We brought him home, since the odds of getting chosen again soon were slim and maybe I was just out of sorts, etc. He'd been given the basics of obedience training at the kennel and he wasn't particularly ill-behaved--but he just seemed very standoffish and sort of checked-out. I felt like I had a big, hairy renter who required a large bag of expensive food every three weeks. Having learned how to be a dog with dogs, he hit if off with my dog, Rita, right away, but the rest of us seemed invisible to him. He could sit and shake hands and lie down on command, but he wouldn't come when called, he had a habit of bolting out the door and zooming off down the street at every opportunity and he barked ALL the time. When someone left the house (even just a visiting friend) he gives earsplitting mournful howls. He didn't answer human affection with any familiar doggy body language. He would just stand there, mystified, while his ears were rubbed, like an alien wondering what the correct response might be to this odd, inexplicable custom. He just didn't act like a dog! He reminded me of "Boy Raised By Wolves" in reverse. I am very good with animals, dogs in particular. I get them, I understand the pack mentality, I have realistic expectations and I'm very casual and loving with them. This weirdly withdrawn non-dog had me completely at a loss. I did my best. I took him running or walking every day. I made him (yes, I actually had to force him the first time) sleep on my bed so he would realize that we were all part of the same pack. I carefully paid him as much affection as Rita, faking it mostly but still trying. Rita was a good role model. She's all about affection. Two weeks into the Jack Experiment, I didn't think he was going to make it. I began to think about what I'd tell the kids and when I'd take him back to Napa (and how great it would be when he was gone). He felt like a visitor who had overstayed his welcome, not part of the family. And then . . . One day, when I came home from an errand, he actually approached me and wagged his little stump of a tail! Seriously, up until this point, I wasn't even sure he knew I wasn't a piece of furniture! It was a real breakthrough, that moment. From then on, slowly but surely, he began to speak in "Family Dog." First the tail wagging. Then voluntarily seeking out affection. Then real doggie excitement about things like belly rubs and walkies. Jack became my primary running buddy--Rita's stumpy little dachshund-mix legs just can't keep up. He started draping himself across my legs at night. He started jumping up on the couch next to me and putting his chin on my shoulder. Suddenly, just like that, I was in love. He went from being "that dog" to being my Bigfoot Beastie Boy. Bonding had officially occurred! Oh, he still needs some work. He still howls when anyone leaves, but it's getting less and less. He still barks too much, but I've learned that a good run in the morning makes for a more peaceful day for me. He is goofy and sweet and extremely intelligent. He's starting to be someone I would miss if he were gone. I look back now and I understand the way he was. It must have been very confusing--to go from virtual solitary confinement to a crowded kennel to a family home within a few months. So many expectations that he had no way to fulfill--so many little signs and secret codes that he'd never experienced. No one patted their leg to call him. No one told him he was a good dog. No one hugged him or asked for kisses or threw something for him to fetch. He must have wanted to join in with us so badly, but like an immigrant child watching from outside the playground, he just didn't speak the language. I'm so glad I stuck it out until he learned. Ten things you might not know about me... Date: 10/20/2006 Ten things you might not know about me . . . I love chocolate but hate candy corn. (Chocolate melts in your mouth, candy corn just squeaks in your teeth--shudder!) I love green and red but hate teal and pink. (The eighties were a real low point for me--it was like "Gumby Meets Cheer Bear" everywhere you looked!) I love scary movies but hate horror novels. (My own imagination is so much worse than any director can accomplish!) I love biking and running but hate any activity that involves flying balls. (Lack of depth perception makes for traumatic middle school PE class!) I love the smell of roses but hate the smell of petunias. (Too many memories--they'll always smell like graveyard to me.) I love filling out puzzles but hate filling out forms. (I have severe IRSaphobia--but don't tell them I said that!) I love being outside but hate to be in the sun. (Fish-belly white is in, I tell you!) I love to travel but hate road trips. (With four older siblings? Remember the hump in the back seat? Who do you think had to sit on the hump?) I love to swim but hate to dive. (Nope--feet down, head up, that's how it should be.) And last of all--I love "top ten" lists but hate trying to come up with Number 10! :) Bad me! It's been too long! Date: 8/12/2006 My friend, Brenda Novak, a talented suspense writer (check her out at brendanovak.com) has challenged me to blog more regularly. So here I am, using my weekend to come up with something interesting to say . . . Okay, here's something--last week I met Christine Feehan! (check her out at ChristineFeehan.com) Brenda was hosting a charity dinner for diabetes and I was invited to join the group. I made my way about twenty miles to Brenda's house (lovely, by the way) and waited with the rest of the group for the guest of honor. Christine arrived windblown and pink-cheeked from her four-hour drive from the coast and impressed us all immediately with how unassuming and down-to-earth she is. If you don't know her, she is the biggest paranormal romance writer out there. She has more than 30 books on the shelves and hits the NYT bestseller list with every new one. She entertained us all with stories of her beginner mistakes and we all talked books and kids while being served a fabulous gourmet meal composed right in Brenda's kitchen by a real chef! (I'm very impressed by that, you see, because I'm more of a Subway-three-times-a-week girl--yep, too lazy to make my own sandwiches!) Christine talked about some of her promotion strategies, freely sharing the secrets of the big-time with us newer writers. She reminded me (again) to keep my blog updated. I really enjoyed hearing how she made her first sale and how she manages her prolific career. She helped me (without even realizing it, I'm sure) overcome a hurdle with my own current work in progress. My fingers started twitching to write, right there at the table. Dessert was provided by Tea Partea House, a wonderful establishment in historic Folsom California where you can dress up in hats and feather boas and be served a fancy tea with your friends. I'm going to take the minions there soon--maybe to celebrate the first day of school! (hooray--free at last!) We ended the night with a photo session--I took most of the pictures. I’m sure Christine felt like a rented birthday pony by the end of it, but she just kept smiling like the lady she is. Brenda was a smashing hostess and Christine was a fascinating guest of honor. The dinner was superb and dessert was scrumptious. It's possible for me to exaggerate, since I never get out, but I’m actually not this time! Fame and success might make some people arrogant--and I can't suck up to that, no matter how huge someone is--but in the best case scenario, it just makes some people confident enough to be themselves among strangers and gracious enough to be kind when they get swarmed by fans. It's a worthy example to follow, should I ever go so far. Or even if I don't. Cover me! Date: 8/1/2006 Hi bloggies, Many apologies for not writing for a while. I have finished the final book of my Royal Four series and am deep into the first book of my new trilogy--officially known as "Book One." You may not realize that most authors do not choose their own titles. I have been fortunate enough to have significant input on my titles, but every time I try to title a book it gets changed. The original title to THE PRETENDER was THE LIAR'S CLUB. I don't mind that change so much since it gave an identity to the entire series. These days I don't even try. I just raise my hand if I hate the one I get from my publisher. Luckily, I've had good titles so far. No PASSION'S PANTING PRINCESS, or BRIGADEER'S BRAVE BOUDOIR--that sort of thing. There's always a big debate on covers. I've had lovely covers with every book I've written, but I've seen some real sweaty-chests-and-heaving-breasts artwork over the years. I personally like a book I can read on the plane without embarassment, although some people are really attracted to the old-school rip-'em-and-unzip-'em covers. Once I went to Wal-Mart to do a little undercover research. I stood by the vast romance rack and asked every person who came to browse what they were attracted to on a cover. Nine out of ten said "Babies." Um . . . .okay . . . .how about the historical romances? Most of them said they liked to see the people, especially the guys. Apparently, some readers are looking for a certain hair color in a hero. I'm not picky, although I did once swear that if I ever read another bleepin' story about a heroine with "violet" eyes, I was going to toss my Godivas. I asked if a cover had ever gotten them to read someone they hadn't read before. All said "yes." I asked if a cover had ever caused them NOT to buy an author they'd previously liked. Believe it or not, they ALL said "yes." I guess I don't understand that. The back copy description might make me think I didn't want that Iris Johannsen or Jennifer Crusie book, but never the cover! I'm in it for the writing, I guess. A good storyteller can always get me going, even if later I might think I didn't like it as well as others. Then again, after a certain point, writers don't get those oily-pecs covers anymore because they don't need them. When I spoke to some romance editors about this, I was told that a "clinch" cover will attract people to a new author. Once they've established themselves, they will most likely get a still life or a landscape (I've had both). Then when they've really arrived, their name will go above the title instead of the other way around. And I thought I'd arrived when I saw my book in the airport newstand! What I did on my summer vacation... Date: 7/25/2006 Or Scenes from a tattoo parlor Maybe it was the fact that I'm turning 42. Maybe it was a last gasp of rocker-chick rebellion against my soccer-mom lifestyle. Maybe it was just because...but I did it. We ended up at Wild Bill's, a locally favorite NorCal tattoo parlor, talking to a mild-mannered young man named Josh, who used to sell long-distance plans over the phone, or something like that. He's been tattooing seriously for about 4 years. (I know this because I grill everyone I meet like I'm debriefing them for the CIA.) First, we talk about the design. I'm a bit controlling straight off. ("I want it realistic, but not like a bug pinned in a collection.) Then I see the artist's gleam appear in Josh's eyes and I back off. I know what that means. He sees something. He knows what he wants to do. Anything I try to add now will only muddy the creative waters. He explains that it will hurt, but it's more irritating than anything. He's absolutely right. If you want to feel it, drag a sewing needle across your skin without quite scratching yourself. Then keep doing it for an hour and a half. It gets old quickly, so I start looking around to distract myself. The room is large and mostly white, with architecture out of another era--the entire building is probably 70 years old and Wild Bill's takes up most of the second floor. Areas about twice the size of a hairdressing booth are set aside for each tattooist. Mine has a padded table like a massage table--probably for those awkward back tattoos--but I'm sitting in a regular office chair, pumped up so I sit higher than Josh. Since mine will be on my shoulder, I don't have to bare anything. There are curtained booths in another area for more privacy, but I like the open hair-salon feeling of this one. In the booth next to us, Venus Flytrap (her tattoo, not her name) is giving a Goth young woman a bird flying over each generous breast. Across the room, the Tattoo-less Tattooist is helping a couple design a commemorative tattoo with their beloved late dog's paw print memorialized in skin and ink for a lifetime. Josh is a friendly guy and we talk kids and tattoos for a while before I'm relaxed enough to sit back and let him concentrate. The studio is spotless--almost medical. I've been in dirtier doctors' offices, frankly. A non-annoying alt rock station is playing on the radio (I expected something a little more head-banging) and chat and comments cross the booths as we all talk about why we're here (except the Goth girl, who never says a word). The Tattoo-less Tattooist (honestly, she looks like a kindergarten teacher) is very patient with the mourning couple, going over the design endlessly until everyone (even me) is satisfied. Then I'm done. I get a hand mirror to see the results. It's beautiful. A delicate, lacy dragonfly is perched on my shoulder. There's even a shadow beneath it, like it's about to lift off. It's entirely lovely, not butch or biker at all. I'm completely infatuated with it. And I even got a sexy Wild Bill's Tattoo Parlor tank top out of the deal! Why isn't there a handbook?? Date: 3/27/2006 What a crazy month I've had. All my bad habits came up to bite me in the butt, healthwise, housewise, workwise. I've neglected my yoga, let the rain keep me from walking and generally turned into a winter couch vegetable (is there such a thing as a computer potato?). As a result, I had to stop working for several weeks straight--doctor's orders!--and try to put humpty-dumpty back together again. I've never been a terribly physical person--may the gods preserve me from any sport involving flying balls!--but I love yoga and I love to walk and swim. So what happened? How does a person simply forget to take care of themselves? Perhaps mentally living in 1813 for six years has something to do with it. I could blame the rain. That song is crap, you know. It rains plenty in California! I thought my car was going to grow moss on the north side! But basically, it's just me. I told my sister the other day that "I kind of suck at life." I get tunnel vision when I work and I tend to let everything around me descend into a whirling vortex of chaos. I've never been good at remembering appointments--or even remembering to make appointments!--and the sink full of dishes can get really frightening before it occurs to me to do them. On the other hand, I can be really cool to be around. This year I let my daughter do a rotting-carcass-CSI experiment on the back patio. C'mon, whose mom ever let them do something that nifty? My youngest is an art fiend and I'm right there with the real oil paints and the easel and never a care about the floor or the walls. So there are ups and downs. Most of the time things mosey along on an even keel--thanks to my eldest, bizarrely organized child (and bi-monthly visits by a saintly lady by the name of Mercedes!). And there are things I'm good at. I love to organize drawers and closets and tool bins. I love to throw junk out--not everyone has that gift--and I can grow a garden anywhere. I guess I just feel incompetent when I look around at all the uber-organized minivan moms--a friend called them "road warriors" today, cracked me up--who watch smugly as I hustle my constantly late child into tae-kwon-do. They obviously don't suck at life. They've obviously got it all figured out. Every day, scheduled down to the last second. Every moment as predictable as the last. Every year, more of the same perfect timing, the same efficient monotony, the tidy house, the perky children, flawlessly trained Labrador--gah! I just gave myself the willies! I guess I prefer a life full of surprises, even if some of them are as unpleasant as discovering new life forms in the bottom of the sink... One Girl Revolution Date: 2/21/2006 Hi bloggies! I'm in Arizona--on a working trip, not vacation, but now that the work is done I admit to having way too much fun. I had lunch with an old friend today and we were discussing the "spa" issue. Meaning, who are these women who go to spas and what do they know that we don't. I've had a few pedicures in the last decade and I'll admit that my nails look much better when someone else does them, but I've never had a facial and I've never stayed overnight in one of those places. Of course, even if I could afford it, I think I'd rather do something else with that $5000 (or whatever) like send it to my Biloxi family members or put it away for my kid's ever-elusive college fund. But that's not the point. What we were wondering is...maybe it's a good idea. For us, as women, as moms, as wives, as employees/bosses/grunt labor, as people who tend to put others first. What would it be like to have several days of literally being the center of everything? To be at the top of the food chain, the pinnacle of the pyramid, to have everyone and everything they do revolve directly around your wishes and your comfort? Well, to heck with the grapeseed facial! I don't care what they're spreading on me. It could be yak-vomit for all it matters. Obviously (we thought) the point is that the experience flips your perspective. From charwoman to Cleopatra in 7 days or less! How could someone come back from that and not be somehow changed? I don't think it would take me more than a few days to start to believe that I was the Queen of All Things Luxurious and Decadent. A dangerous, revolutionary thought in a life like mine (and probably yours). I'm sure it would mess me up for months and devastate the smoothly running (ha!) routine of my family life. Really, really a bad idea. (Doesn't it sound like fun?) Blogalicious...or maybe not Date: 1/13/2006 Okay, I'll admit it. I am beginning to suffer from blog avoidance. The same thing happened once when my best friend went off to the Peace Corps for two years and I promised to write. I tried to for a while, but I started to feel as though I didn't have anything interesting to say. She was having an amazing African adventure and I was just trying not to go crazy working in fast-paced world of dispensing hemorroid cream. Now, since lack of things to say never happens to me when face to face (my mother told me once that I talk like I "just got out of prison.") I realize that it probably isn't true. Still, there are times where I sit here, knowing that I ought to do more to keep up my blog, but wondering why in the world anyone would want to know that I finally found the world's most perfect duvet cover on Overstock.com . So what's worth blogging, and what's not? As I read some authors' blogs, all I see is "READ MY BOOK" phrased over and over again in countless different ways. Of course, I want you to read my books! Duh! I want to keep bargain shopping, which requires an income. So read my books, PLEASE. There, said it. Done. So I'm going to try my best to keep up the bloggie and NOT bore you all to tears! :) Frog Blog Date: 11/2/2005 I'm a frog murderer. I didn't mean to, and my intentions were good, but there is no denying that it was all my fault. My youngest had accomplished something that I never managed to do in my childhood--she raised two frogs from tadpoles. We've had them for months, in a pond-environment tank we set up. They were doing great, living high on worms and crickets. But of course, that wasn't enough for me. I can't just do something--I have to overdo it. So I decided that the frogs weren't getting enough variety in their diet and had the pet store put vitamin dust on the crickets. Two dead frogs, coming up. Don't you just hate it when your worst flaw comes to life (or death) right before your eyes? I think my biggest lesson on this earth is to find balance--to live somewhere between profound procrastination and gung-ho overachiever. Uber-mommie must die. I can do it. After all, I killed the frogs, right? Schmears for Fears Date: 9/28/2005 I have been reading a wonderful book by Ray Bradbury--"Zen in the Art of Writing." Just a collection of his essays on writing from the past fifty years, but it's so inspiring. He's one of us, an unapologetic genre writer who shamelessly pulls from his childhood favorites (like Buck Rogers and Lon Chaney movies) and makes no pretensions to literary heights. It's like therapy for me--very freeing. So I'm ax-murdering my inner editor (midnight backyard burial, to be masked as a fresh flower bed, so the neighbors won’t complain of the smell) as soon as this book goes in and not resurrecting her until I've got the first draft of the next one done. Do we ever stop battling fear? It seems like every time I turn around, I realize one more fear that I must overcome. Like having a dull machete in a fast-growing forest. Fear of screwing up--that's a valid one, for I'm not as organized as I wish I were. Lots of missed appointments and forgotten plans in my history. Fear of writing a bad book--I conquered that one thanks to Alanis Morrisette, who said in an interview that moments of creative spirit cannot be judged as good or bad, they just ARE. Some people will respond, some won't, but good or bad doesn't enter into it. I'd wear that as a t-shirt if I wore t-shirts with slogans on them. No, I do not sell my chest for advertising purposes. I made that decision back in the eighties when ugly little alligators were everywhere and I stand by it. Fear of looking stupid (ie:ugly little alligators on my boob)-- well, I don't mind looking stupid for something that I believe in, but there is no way I'm going to jump on some trendy bandwagon and look stupid for someone else's profit. No alligators, no brand names plastered across my butt, no hats with ANYTHING on them. (Of course, “Tiffany’s” is another matter entirely.) Fear of letting down the ones I love--nope, I still have that one. I'm not sure that's one I should try to defeat. What if I was one of those artists/writers/actors who puts their own career/genius/self-expression ahead of human relationships? I'd probably be richer or more famous, but I don't think I'd like me very much. So I'll keep dropping everything on deadline to play with my children and hope the publishing world can handle the damage. Fear of everyone finding out that I’m not a real writer—this one comes from the fact that I didn’t KNOW I wanted to be a writer until I was in my thirties. It was all some sort of creative whim that exploded. For a while I bought into other people’s (other writers’!) opinion that I didn’t deserve my success. Funny how working like a ditchdigger for six years can pop that little bubble of unentitlement. New fear—hot off the presses—Fear that I can’t handle it all, that I’ll choke and drop all the balls that I’m juggling and the world will end. Of course, YOUR world won’t end. Good books will still be written by others, so the publishing world won’t end. And I can always go work at Barnes & Noble, selling other people’s books (which I might finally have time to read) so my world will not end. It will just change. New fear # 2—Fear of change… There's a treat in store! Date: 9/21/2005 I just got the preliminary work on the site redesign--and you guys are going to love it! It's so cool I can't believe it's mine! I've worked really hard on the content--there is a lot of my own artwork on there and cool stuff about all the characters of all the books. I'm still not done but it will all continue to grow as the books keep coming! Also, I've updated my appearances page, so be sure to check out the October booksigning dates! I'm going to try to travel more extensively in the future, but for now I'm showing up in northern California. I have so many new books coming out in the next two years that I don't dare spend too much time a book tour. I've always wanted to do one, but I have to admit I have that high school feeling about them...you know, the one where you throw a huge party and no one comes? I can't imagine anything worse than day after day of sitting in bookstores, directing people to the restroom. And then there's always the woman who wants to make sure you know she doesn't read "those kind of books." Like it's a test or something. "Well, good for you, ma'am! You passed! I'll be sure to let everyone know." I usually just smile and say something like "That leaves more for the rest of us." Someday, that person is going to be stuck somewhere--preferably somewhere without air conditioning or chocolate--with nothing to read but someone else's tattered old copy of "The Windflower." I give her 24 hours before she's at the bookstore, raking the shelves, looking for more. I got the cover art for "One Night With A Spy" and of course I couldn't help tampering with it. Those fence posts! Holy Phallic Symbols, Batman! So it'll look a bit different than this, but I thought I'd give you guys a preview. Ratatouille Date: 9/8/2005 Okay, I don't cook much, but when I do I really like to chop things up and use lots of pots and pans. A good way to do this is to make ratatouille, which is just a fancy French word for "stew." I neglected my little garden--okay, I ABANDONED my little garden toward the end of the summer. Plus, with little cooking going on last month (on deadline) all the veggies from the organic farm delivery were racking up. The solution--ratatouille. You know, it's almost as fun to type as it is to say... I'm trying to come up with a deep and insightful way to relate life to ratatouille--you know, using what you've been given, not wasting your resources, being creative with the solutions demanded of you on a daily basis...but never mind. I'm starving and dinner smells amazing. You'll figure it out. What I did on my summer vacation... Date: 8/31/2005 My homework is late. I should have told you all about my family reunion in Biloxi while it was still there. My aunt turned 80. She is my mother's eldest sister and the grand diva of all the siblings. She is refined and interesting and well-traveled and the mother of three highly interesting daughters. I played with them often as a child, but I haven't seen my aunt or cousins (or almost everyone on that side of the family) since I was fourteen. The photo below is of my generation (and some of the next) that were at the party. I'm in the white tee shirt. My sister, Cindy, is in the turquoise top. My childhood memories of Ocean Springs, Gulfport and Biloxi (a string of small cities hip-to-hip along the Mississippi Sound) were that it was a happening fun beach community. My cousins Janine, Alicia and Brenda, were all about the beach and I envied their sophistication. Going back this past July, after a lifetime of seeing other places and other people, was an eerie experience. There was that sense of everything being smaller and a bit more shabby. The vast entertainment mecca I remembered was actually about 5 miles long and two blocks deep. But the thing that struck me the most about the people of Gulfport, where I stayed, was that they were funny. Service was laid-back, things happened on "Mississippi Time", and everyone had time to laugh. From the girl behind the counter at Subway to the hostess at the casino restaurant (the one with the blue roof that ended up in the middle of Hwy 90) everyone took time to crack a joke, to laugh at mine, to talk about their city, which they so obviously loved. My sister and I walked the beachfront as often as possible, despite the heat (or maybe because of it) and admired the lovely old homes there. I think most of those stunning places are rubble now. I know my favorite one--a white victorian with a dream-come-true tower on the corner--is now a pile of debris, nothing left but the front steps that go nowhere. I've heard through the family email loop that my aunt and my cousins are alive and well, but that the damage is extensive. We haven't heard from some of the others in southern Louisiana, where I grew up. I'm supposed to be writing hard, finishing up another Royal Four novel, but for days now I have been glued to CNN, stunned by the damage. I went through a few hurricanes as a kid in Louisiana--nothing like Katrina--but I remember the way the air felt. I remember telling my mother that "The sky looks sick." My mother seemed to take it all in stride, packing up the kids and the critters and driving north for a few days, leaving the horse in the kitchen and tape all over the windows. Coming home afterward was like the opposite of the anticipation of Christmas. You drove slowly, eyes wide, stunned by the trees that were down, the houses that were torn like paper, getting ever closer to your own house, wondering what you find when you turned in your driveway. Our solid brick house always made it, our pecan trees were still standing, although our swimming pool never really recovered from the time Lake Ponchartrain rose and filled it with brackish water and swamp creatures. We took the horse out of the kitchen, took the tape off the windows and raked the limbs and leaves from the yard and went back to living. This time, I don't think people on the coast are going to be so lucky. Cover me! Date: 6/12/2005 Okay, for all of you who have seen the "Holy Burning Atlanta!" cover for SURRENDER TO A WICKED SPY--it has been changed. Now it looks like more fun. Holy Cannoli!!! Date: 6/9/2005 My editor emailed me this morning--THE ROGUE debuted on USA Today's Bestseller List! I keep going to look at it online. It's geeky, I know, but I want to print out the page and frame it! I wrote a bestseller? Me? The girl who never did manage a decent cartwheel, or learn to flirt, or master the elusive art of pie-crust, or figure out how to hook up a stereo, or grasp html, or stop biting my nails--me? Does anyone remember the movie "Clerks"? There's a scene where a disbelieving Dante calls up the newspaper just to check if the announcement of his ex-girlfriend's engagement is not in fact some sort of inside-job sabotage by a disgruntled reporter. That's me, thinking of calling up USA Today and asking, "Are you sure?? Do you need to count the books again?" Wow. However (and you knew there had to be a however. So did I) the single line of description reads like this "Romance: Gambler falls for a nobleman he suspects of treason." Yes, you read that correctly. "Nobleman." Apparently, without even trying, I've written the first gay Regency bestseller! At least they spelled my name right... Today I met Vladimir... Date: 5/24/2005 "I am Russian Orthodox priest," Vladimir says, placing one big, worn hand over his heart. His accent is thick and unmistakable. His wife, Maria, tiny and bent, smiles tentatively as Vladimir tows me into his home to view his icons. In their living room are all the usual trappings of an American home. TV, books, sofa and chair...and icons. Floor to ceiling, on every shelf, on every table. Walls and walls of icons--hundreds of years of Russian devotional art, all lovingly reproduced on rectangles of plywood, then varnished to a perfect sheen in Vladimir's garage workshop. "I send to Russia," he explains and gestures to piles of undisplayed finished pieces. He tells me where this painting originated, and where that painting originated, and I should be digging into my own art history training as I listen, but all I can do is bask in the small, secret smiles of a hundred Madonnas. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about faith. I have my own (when I bother) and Vladimir and Maria have theirs. But even I could feel the peace shining from all those wise and solemn eyes. I can still feel it. I wish you could have been there. Oh, sweet mystery of love... Date: 5/23/2005 Okay, it has come to my attention that on my site I don't have a list of my series in order. When in doubt, you can always go by the publication date, but I know how frustrating it is. So, just for those of you who, like me, MUST read books in order... The Pretender (#1) The Impostor (#2) The Spy (#3) My Scandalous Bride anthology--"Wedding Knight" (related story) The Charmer (#4) To Wed A Scandalous Spy (Royal Four Book #1) The Rogue (#5) Surrender to a Wicked Spy (Royal Four Book #2-due out in Oct) Untitled Royal Four Book 3 (due out mid-2006) Untitled Royal Four Book 4 (due out late 2006) I hope that helps! Bad me... Date: 5/15/2005 Okay, yes, I've been lax in my blogging. I think I'll blame it on the kids and the school's idea of end of the year parental obligations. Or maybe I could blame my deadline crunch (like I didn't know the book was due for the last 6 months!) or maybe general I-just-moved-across-the-country disorganization... Well, the truth is, if I have the time to re-watch "The Full Monty" on cable, I probably have time to update my blog. Sorry. Okay, blog-flog over. I have good news. I'm working with my web designer, High Rock Interactive, to bring you the new, updated and extremely cool Liars-In-Love site. I'm shooting for the first week of June so be checking back, okay? In other news, I wonder how many of you saw the blooper in the back of To Wed A Scandalous Spy that said The Rogue was Book 2 in The Royal Four series? Nope. They goobered. The Rogue is Book 5 of the Liar's Club. Surrender to a Wicked Spy is Book 2 of the Royal Four and it will be out in October. Other than that, I'm just trying to pull the site content together and someday I'm going to get around to planting that tomato seedling (now 3 feet tall in the pot) that has been sitting on my patio for a month. However, on the plus side, I got my closet organized! I know you don't care, but I have to say it makes it easier to get dressed in the morning when I can find that other shoe! And getting dressed on time means I'm that much more likely to work than watch unemployed steel workers take off their rigs! TTFN! I wish we all could be California girls... Date: 3/29/2005 Okay, I'm happy to be back out West, I admit it. I love the big sky and the sunshine and the sierra landscape. Sue me. Unfortunately, I've barely been out of the house and haven't ventured any farther than the mall in the month that I've been here. Moving, unpacking, the flu, unpacking, writing, unpacking... I think I might not be moving again for a while. (That sounds rather mild when what I really mean is that I will chain myself bodily to porch pillar if a certain someone that I'm married to gets itchy feet again!) The funny thing is--and I think most people probably do this--that I keep catching myself trying to make this new life be just like the old one. I put my dishes away in roughly the same arrangement. I put my living room furniture down pretty much where it stood in the other house. Same bedroom arrangement, same division of closet space... I had a gerbil who did that once. Every time I cleaned the cage, I would put the new toilet-paper tube in a different place. Even though he was blind, or maybe because he was blind, he would push it to the same corner as before. So am I efficient, or completely predictable and deeply, profoundly boring. I don't even LIKE my old furniture, much less the old arrangement! Or maybe it's a way to alleviate some of the sense of upheaval. Although I wanted this move--badly--it is still an enormous disruption and requires endless amounts of adjustment. Maybe I just wanted to have a few things right where they used to be, like my favorite coffee mug. I'd rather not think about the possibility that I was a blind gerbil in another life. upping my roots... Date: 2/20/2005 I've moved a lot in my life--read my bio for more details--and I've got the mechanics of it down pat (feel free to email me for tips!) but I never know how I'm going to feel about a move at the last moment. I've enjoyed a lot of things about living in Tennessee, although I've always felt a little bit like a visitor. I feel more at home in the West and have family there, so I know this is a good move...but I'm going to miss a few things that I didn't realize. March:Daffodils that have naturalized in the pastures--and the little black Angus calves running through them. May:the poppies strewn by the roadside bloom like a red carpet. You just want to pull your car to the side and stare. Gentlemen: Yep, in Tennessee men still hold the door open for a woman and let her get on the elevator first! I may be a feminist, but there is an old-fashioned charm to having a strange man smile and perform an act of consideration just because he can. My house: I spent the last five years here, very happily. My children have grown a lot while we were here and I'm afraid they're going to leave a lot of good memories behind without familiar surroundings to remind them. Things I'm not going to miss... Torado warnings/watches: After 5 years, I still can't remember which one is which! No more hiding under the stairs, listening to the weather radio until the storm passes. Yeah, I know I'm moving to earthquake-land, but serious earthquakes in northern California are rare and tornados in Tennessee are a sure thing! Country/Conservative music: Hey, I grew up on Patsy Cline and HeeHaw, too, but enough is enough already!! It's just so thick on the ground that there is no room for anything else. I was in a store the other day and heard a young mom (no more than thirty!) complain to the manager about the crazy music on the store stereo. It was the Rolling Stones--"It's Only Rock 'N Roll." I kid you not. That song--a full-on righteous classic--is probably older than her!! So I'm looking forward to a little less conformity and a little more variety in life. Still, as I pack and make arrangements, I'm surprised at how bittersweet it is. New Year's Revolutions Date: 1/7/2005 Yep, that's me. I can't resolve a thing. I just revolve, circling around and around something until I get it through my head that it has to be done. I gained back every single one of those fifteen pounds since last fall. It was the cookies that did me in. I LOVE cookies. So now I'm revolving around the idea of working out regularly. Today is the third day this week that I got up and dressed in sweatpants...that's a start, right? Of course, I never operate well in chaos, and chaos is reigning here at Bradley Central. Boxes everywhere, some packed, some not. We are moving the family out West again (a good thing!) but in the meantime it has put a big fat obstacle down in front of me finishing SURRENDER TO A WICKED SPY. Editors and deadlines aside, I WANT to write this book, darn it! I can hear them in my head and if I don't hurry up they may start squabbling and fighting and then I'll never get them together in the end! So I'm wondering if my revolution to work out is going to help me stay on top of everything or just take up much needed time? (Sigh.) So many decisions...I think I'll have another cookie while I think about it. People keep asking me... Date: 12/15/2004 ...when my new Liars-In-Love and Royal Four sites are going to be up. I am working on the artwork right now, since I wanted to do character and location drawings myself (it seems like I ought to be able to use all those years of art school for something!) but the hold-up is that I'm just too busy writing! The books have really taken off and I'm being asked to write more and more quickly. And since I am a writer, and not an internet celeb (is there such a thing??) I kind of think I ought to go write instead of draw. Unfortunately, the existing site is currently in an unchangeable state, kind of like a giant jpeg. It can only be replaced, not updated. I'm leaving it as is for now, but I'm hoping to have some time for it after I've finished Book 2 of the Royal Four series. In the meantime, keep your eye on CelesteBradley.com. I'll keep that updated so that you'll know when something new is coming out! takin' care of business Date: 11/30/2004 Dear Bloggie, I've been deep underground, finishing up The Rogue. It's off to New York and I'm turning right around to work on SURRENDER TO A WICKED SPY, Book 2 in the Royal Four series. I love the first part of writing a book. I'm still figuring out the details of the story and the characters. It's sort of like getting all the ingredients out before you cook. Everything is still clean, all the vegetables are bright and colorful, the knives look so sharp that you think you could cut forever! Of course, eventually I will be in that other place, where there's flour in my hair, gravy on the ceiling and something's about to burn! Between here and there, however, is a period of the finest fun known to woman. I love to write--much more than I like to cook!--and even when it's bad, it still beats being a drugstore cashier (getting sneezed on!) or cleaning out parrot cages (getting pooped on!) or being a birthday clown (getting peed on!) or any of the other painfully low-paying jobs I've had. When other writers talk about being blocked, that's what I always think to myself..."I could always go back to work at the pet store in the mall"... Nope! No block! No problem here! I'm all set--gimme a pen, I'll write it by hand if I have to!! Or with my toes! Just don't make me go back to work at the Maaaalllll!! Yeah, block all gone now. All Hallow's Eve Date: 10/31/2004 We're big pumpkin-heads at our house. This year, one daughter is going as Roxie Hart from "Chicago" and the other is going as a foxy devil chick. I'm answering the door in my gown from the Rita awards with a tiara in my hair. We also celebrate the Mexican holiday of Dia de los Muertos, in a mixed heritage kind of way. We don't picnic in the graveyard since we don't have any family dead nearby, but we grow marigolds and make an altar and put out pictures of those we have lost. I like it. It's comforting and joyous. I always try to find pictures of our loved ones laughing. This year I'm using the one of my parents that is in my website gallery. They were young and crazy about each other and silly. I love that. The pumpkin is carved and lit--even though it's still daylight--and the kids are having one last run around the neighborhood in street clothes. I'm picking through the candy saving out the Whoppers for myself (why waste them on people who can't appreciate them?) and enjoying a day off from writing. This is the beginning of our big season, that goes from now until Easter. We have two birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas and a few holidays that we created for ourselves. I've lost 15 pounds in the last two months...it's going to be a challenge to keep it off during the Candy Months. Still, I believe in living for today--what if I don't see another Halloween?? I'd be awfully sorry I didn't eat those Whoppers, right? Writing is pretty much ass-in-chair if you're serious about it. The career might be going well, but the ass is gettin' a bit large! So, okay, I'll put the Whoppers back. Maybe... Shall I kick his butt for you, kind sir? Date: 10/26/2004 The new buzz words in the romance industry are "kick-butt heroine." That's classy, ain't it? But I like a good butt-kicking as much as the next girl. However, this article in USAToday http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/news/2004-10-25-romance-novels_x.htm (sorry, I have no idea how to insert a hyperlink!) makes it sound like Regency or Victorian heroines never kick any butt at all. Ahem!! (raising hand violently) So very beg to differ! Picture me all defensive about my poor ladies as they are relegated to nothing but hankies and the vapors to defend themselves! Oh well, I suppose I should be happy that the media is giving ANY credence to the romance industry, although I did notice that they couldn't resist using the term "bodice ripper" just once, even though that's not at all what they were talking about. I am as sick of that term as I am of "metrosexual"!! (sigh) I feel a tad overwrought. I do hope I don't faint... A little time off Date: 10/25/2004 One of my favorite movies is "Enchanted April." I love the part where Lady Caroline is thinking, "I just need to get my feathers smoothed." That's what it feels like to me when schedules and demands become overwhelming. Some people take vacations, but I can't really afford the time. Some people go to spas, but I can't really afford the price. So I take a "mini-break." A few days in a local hotel to focus on the book and get some distance from the small stuff I'm sweating. I did that last weekend--two nights in a plain little chain hotel. Not posh, not interesting, not anything distracting like a charming bed & breakfast. Just me and four walls and silence. Heaven. All the advantages of solitary confinement without the inconvenience of burly guards named Bertha who want to date me. Plus tiny pretzels and lots of C2! Sometimes that's all that is needed to get the book rolling through my mind, scrolling across my mental screen like a movie that I finally get to see the end of. THE ROGUE is in the building! No Soup for Me! Date: 10/16/2004 Okay, that doesn't make sense unless you know that around my house, that Seinfeldism refers to screwing up and missing out. I screwed up. I didn't remember to take my camera to the fabulous mega-author signing and get my picture taken with some of my favorite writers. (sigh) I hate it when I flake on the details like that...and I tend to flake fairly often! So, no soup for you either, since I don't have any pictures. But the signing was fun and exciting, and I did get to meet a few loyal readers and hopefully made a few new ones...and I did get to hang out with Lori Foster! And, my newest discovery--Toni Blake! I hadn't tried her before, and now I'm a serious fan. I just wish I had more time to read. It's back to the keyboard for me. I'm working on The Rogue--Ethan Damont's story--and having a blast. I'm channeling Captain Jack Sparrow here, with just a hint of Brendan Fraser's Rick O'Connell from The Mummy. It sounds funny, but it's working! My publisher said this one will be coming out in June--a great release date because it's "beach read season"! So I'd better get back to work and get this puppy done on time. Later! THE CHARMER is out! Date: 10/5/2004 Dear Bloggie, Big news for me since it's been 9 months since my last full-length novel came out. (looking down) 9 months? Is that why my ankles are swollen? Well, it was sort of a painful writing process, so maybe I was in labor! THE CHARMER gave me fits while I was working on it, but now I think it is one of the best books I've written. My favorite thing to do when a new book is out is to go to the bookstore and gaze at my book on the shelf. Highly geeky, I know, but it just doesn't seem real until I see it sitting there, ready to be bought and read. Before I do that, I have to finish up putting together the things I'm bringing to the Mega-Author booksigning in Louisville, KY, this Saturday. I get to meet Lori Foster! How cool is that? Is that sort of geeky, too? I guess I should be all cool and experienced by now, but dang! It's Lori Foster!! There are going to be lots of other great writers there, so check the appearances page to see all the great women who are going to sign that day! I'm in love Date: 9/14/2004 Dear Bloggie, My name is Celeste and I’m obsessed. I’m in love. Yep, that’s right. Love—obsession—longing—and of course, big thumpity-thumps of my heart (among other things). I was this-close to Hugh Jackman. HUGH JACKMAN, ladies. Oh, MY. (fanning face) The camera just doesn’t capture the IT factor well enough. On screen, he’s sexy, he’s handsome, he’s got a great bod—but the IMPACT of seeing him in person magnifies all that. The man emanates supercharged sexy particles, like little poison darts that infect you and make you do crazy things like yell his name out loud, and make “whoop” noises, and scream “Shake it, baby!” Yes, I actually “whooped” in public. The shameful “Shake it, baby” incident belongs to a woman sitting in front of me, thankfully. Because then this woman and her equally drunk-on-pure-Hughie friend had to stand up and shake it for Hugh. Okay, I’ll admit it. I was jealous. I wished he’d make me stand up and shake it. The Boy From Oz on Broadway, ladies. Your ticket to two and half hours of all Hugh, all the time. He sang, he danced, he shook it. Worth the price of the ticket, the hotel and the plane fare all in one. Just me and Hugh—I think there were a few other people there, but I don’t really recall it clearly. He sang to ME. Okay, yes, he was playing a gay character who was singing to another guy, but it FELT like he was singing to me. So I put Hugh on my list. You know, the LIST? The one that says if Sting calls, you can go and your significant other just has to deal? He took of his shirt. And his pants. Sigh… Go away. Hugh and I want some privacy.
Copyright 2004, Celeste Bradley	web design by High Rock Interactive