Taking control of the out-of-control

With a muffled "oof" sound, picture one pair of writer's hands (we can tell they're writer's hands because the nails are au naturel, tinged with ink and have trace amounts of cat hair held on with Bath and Bodyworks lotion (today's scent: pineapple.)) grappling over a ledge. More "oofs," and a head of long red hair held by a black scrunchie becomes visible. A mighty heft and the rest of the writer appears. The experienced reader can tell immediately what's been going on.

The writer's spectacles, perched on the end of the nose, bear more finger smudges than they ought, and sit slightly askew. The writer thumbs them back up into their proper position and the reader gives a knowing nod. That's how the smudges get there. The writer dusts herself off, brushing hands on her long denim skirt and adjusts her sandals. She looks around. Almost summer. Huh. So time does pass outside the pages. She reaches down below the ledge and tugs on the rope that lifts a bulky bag. Books, of course. Lots and lots of books. She spills them out onto the ground, casting a furtive look about her.

Not, of course, that she cares much what others might think of her treasure. If they don't want it, more for her. The scent of books long-loved wafts through the air. The viewer catches a whiff. Is that...pre-1995 romances? Arguably the dividing line between styles of historical romance. The reader inches closer, but takes a step back. There be adverbs there, the viewer reminds herself. Alpha jerks, too. Lots of room for them to lurk in all those pages.

Ah, the writer reminds her, but there is room for alpha heroines as well, and all the world to roam. All the time they need to acheive their goals in there as well. Years and years if that's what's needed.

Years? But what about the rest of the series? If the first hero is taking all that time to win his heroine, what about his friends/brothers/cousins? Surely they're not sitting idle.

The writer settles back on her haunches and takes two Diet Cokes out of the bag. She opens one and sets one at a safe distance between herself and the reader. She peers over the rims of her spectacles. There isn't always a series. Sometimes the book ends with only one hero and heroine's story.

But what, the reader asks, scratching her head with one hand and taking the offered beverage with the other, happens to everyone?

They live happily ever after, the writer says, as though that's the most natural thing in the world.

But, the reader asks, we never see them again?

The writer pauses to allow herself an amused chuckle. Anytime, she tells the reader, you want. Their future turns out exactly as you wish it to. That's the happily ever after part. That's what heroes -- and heroines-- do. It used to happen more often.

The reader takes a cautious sip. Do tell.

Oh yes. Sometimes, the writer says, pushing one book toward the reader, the same couple comes back for another adventure.

To help the new hero and heroine, right?

The writer presses her lips together and tilts her head back for a moment before answering. Sometimes, she says, and usually it's their children, but no, not always. Sometimes, she continues, her voice dropping, something bad happens and they have to regain their footing and rekindle their love. But, she's quick to assure the reader, it's always okay.

Happily ever after, the reader repeats on a whisper. She settles on the ground, close to the outside of the spread of books and peruses the covers. That doesn't look like England, she says, pointing to one illustration. Neither does that one, or that one. Oh, that one does, but what's the frilly thing around the hero's neck?

A ruff, the writer says, nudging the book closer to the reader. See how the shape is echoed in the heroine's farthingale? Quite lovely, isn't it?

The reader's eyes narrow for only a moment. That was a passive tense the writer used.

When needed, she answers, it isn't the end of the world. It's like the white crayon in the big box; one doesn't use it all the time, but when needed for the proper effect.

You can do that? The reader's voice has a prickle of doubt and a glimmer of hope.

Yes, the writer answers, I can. There's a whole bag of tricks in here, and it's fun to play with all of them. That, she says, is where the stories come from. Come and stay a while.

Phrases you do not want to hear your handyman say:

1. That's a very aggressive snake.
2. He's rattling.
3. He's only moving this slow because it's not warm enough for him. (from me: that was slow?)

All of those come from yesterday's session with the handyman at my dad's house while getting big icky things out of the garage. Realizing that the snake on the ground, he (she?) of the rattle and fangs *was* the "metal hook" on the hinge of the paint can I had just carried in thirty seconds ago does things for ye olde blood pressure, let me tell you.

In the end, handyman and assistant handyman were able to trap snake and rehome him on a different part of the property, but "our" snake may have relatives in the basement. In either event, going in with nice bright lightbulbs next time.

What does this have to do with romance writing? Not much on the surface but every session of clearing out the house does uncover things. My father was an artist all of his adult life, so when I find some of his neatokeen art supplies (thank you, Dad, for buying the good stuff) it gives me a little creative boost. Similarly, every trip over there means new discoveries, sometimes about the man himself, sometimes about previous generations, parts of my own life I'd only seen from a child or teen's perspective, or the creative process in general. One could call it a form of archeaology. There's always something to mull over or dust off and use in a new and different way.

Which is what writers do anyway, so it sort of counts as a creative endeavor. So does speculating over what I might be "missing" by using this time to work on the house when I had three, count them, three novels in my bag, in the car, all strongly calling my name. What were the characters doing while I was away? Sure, they'll be considerate and sit on idle until I can get back but in a *good* book, characters are people to me, and when I'm not with them, I miss them. We'll be having some special time after dinner tonight. The snake is not invited.

Reading (and writing) It Old School, part one

I came of age as a romance reader in the time of the big epic historicals that spanned years and continents and hero and heroine might even have to go through (at least) a spouse each before they were free to have their well earned HEA. I remember once thinking that I especially liked when the heroine had the couple's first child, because that meant we were in for the meat of the story with lots more still to come. It wasn't that uncommon to see the little sproglets grow through the book and have actual bearings on plot and character development. Neither were they automatically being set up for their own books.

These were the days of Small, Woodiwiss, Brandewyne, Busbee, McBain and Sherwood, to name only a few. Single titles rather than series were the norm, though there were exceptions. Jennifer Wilde's character, Marietta Danvers, was the heroine of three books, and not all with the same hero. Valerie Sherwood's Kells and Carolina swashed their buckle from colonial Virginia to the island of Tortuga through three big, thick books, and the same author's Imogene and VanRyker (not related to Kells and Carolina) had two and a half books, the other book and a half devoted to Imogene's presumed-dead-in-infancy daughter and her hero. Rosemary Rogers' Steve and Ginny had them all beat, with a whopping four books to their relationship before their daughter had a turn in the spotlight. Depending on how much one wants to quibble through a saga, Aola Vandergriff's Dan and Tamsen may well be the king and queen of the continuing stooooory, having lead or at least central roles in no less than six books of her Daughters series, following the tempestuous Tamsen and her sisters from late teens to old age and final days. Dan and Tamsen didn't have children, either.

Books of this era could often be termed heroine-centric, which suits me fine. A heroine might be beautiful, corageous and strong (none of those bad things) but by no means perfect in the Mary Sue sense. Shanna, from Kathleen Woodiwiss' novel of the same name, started out as a selfish spoiled brat, but there was room for change, and boy, did she. Plus she got Ruark. No bluebirds doing the hair of these gals, and I think it's high time they had a shot at the center stage once more. At least that's what I'm trying to do, and it's what comes most natural to me.

Resurfacing

My all purpose question these days is, "can I put gesso on it?" Usually, the answer is "yes." Seeing as how I only have white gesso right now, this may mean that as soon as I get black gesso I may not be seen again for another long time. Hopefully, though, I'm back. Writing, digital art, regular art, reading about ballroom dancing (the joys of research) and what I promised myself I wouldn't do -- start brewing the idea soup for a new historical before I've finished one of the current projects. Sometimes these things happen, and I really truly am not going to start actual writing on the new project until I finish the first full draft of Endless Summer. Seeing as how the half draft is done, saved and I'm rapidly approaching the midpoint of the first full draft ::ducking floundersmack from Vicki, who will tell me I am working on my second draft and the half draft is the first draft:: that shouldn't be too long. So I am okay with starting the idea soup.

Currently stuck on Blake Lewis' "Meet Me At the End of the World," which may have some influence on the new project. Still on a pretty good run of reading historicals; not every one is a gem, but keeping a steady stream of reading helps keep a steady stream of writing.

Did not see American Idol last night, as our cable was wonky and unless is was "Only make sound every other syllable" night, I don't have that kind of patience. Watched the real life hero tinker with tv and cable box for two hours while attempting to talk to a human being at the cable place and was thankful I had a book with me.

Doing good, feeling good, would say looking good but not yet ready to attempt self portraiture with digicam. Ask me again after shampoo and makeup, but the joy of new fitted tshirts means I can get rid of the schlubby old sizes too big ones that procreate in my tshirt drawer.

Conference coming in a month, huzzah. Time to mingle with other romance writers and beg agents/editors to recognize my genius. Making mini cds with promo stuff on them, so if you hear a voice that sounds like mine saying Very Bad Words, you know I'm trying to print something new.

The point of it all is, I am here, really I am. (edited to add appropriate icon I'd forgotten I made)

I'm in an arty phase at the moment, hence the icon base over yonder. Alexandra Vandernoot as Tessa from Highlander, and part of the inspiration for Trista, my heroine in my historical MS, The Wild Rover. Which I have neglected for the past six weeks while working feverishly on the time travel, Endless Summer. Which paid off, as I now have a nifty certificate boasting my being in the four top page counts of all who participated. Sense of accomplisment, I has one. Definetly gives me the impetus to keep on plugging and I'm close to having a workable first draft on that one. I may have to keep up some of the disciplines as a regular matter of course.

As for other matters, I need a really good historical romance read. This said by the woman who could build a small bungalow out of her TBR pile, and a small garage out of her keepers. You readers know what I mean, though. It has to be the right read at the right time. I think my Karen Ranney glom spoiled me. I did break down and rebuy the first of her Highland Lords series, so may delve into that, only it will mean rebuying the rest of the series, four more books, and I'm not in a series mood at the moment. Le sigh. May have to brave the attic and rummage for the other Ranneys I know are in there somewhere. Or I can reread her Tapestry. Yep, that desperate. Or devoted. Or something.

There's a certain sort of extra zing when the right art and the right reading come together to feul the writing. I like the zing. Need the zing. Getting the zing. Also some gummi bears.

Nearly a month -- I know, I know, bad blogger. I wish I could say I've been furiously writing the entire time, but that wouldn't be entirely true. I have been making a concerted effort to write more, more tush in chair and fingers on keyboard, and by my page count, that is definetly paying off, but it's more relaxing than furious. I think all my furious is going into my heroines these days; outside of writing, I'll settle for a good nap. I'll save the furious part for everyday inconveniences. In short, me, doing good, family doing good, everyday urghs have ups and downs, but the story does go on.

Plus graphics. Since part of the everyday ugh includes an unusual sleep schedule, and the abode is still a postage stamp, I've found myself with some very artistic evenings. Granted, it's what one would term fan art, but y'know, that's what fires my creative brain, so that's what I'm going with for right now. Last week's project was icons -- don't know if there are enough message boards I go on to use half of the ones I've been making, but it's like calisthenics for the brain. How much can I get into such a little square? Time spent hunting down new techniques and tutorials is not time wasted, but time well spent, if it can get me to think "what if I tried this?" Sometimes it works out, sometimes not so good, but I have become far more familiar with Paint Shop Pro 6 than I thought I would. I do plan to upgrade in the near future, when I acquire the big bad pink monster, but for now, this is good.

With all that, yesterday, I hit on a first in that department. I actually printed out some of my projects for a scrapbook. Love scrapbooks. but face it, nobody wants to see my memories of the last year. (Though I do wonder what the good folks at Somerset Memories would think if I sent in a layout entitled "Three ER visitss in one week!" or "Another Alzheimer Moment." Umm, yeah, probably not.) I don't want to see my memories of last year. Trust me, I will not forget, and by the time I channel them into some poor unfortunate character in another century, they will be far more entertaining than traumatic.

For right now, this is my visual art. Taking the scenes and ideas and characters in my head and making them different, which, after all, is what I do with writing anyway. Only this time, with images. Which make the words want to come out and play.

Boldly Going

Jumping off a cliff can be scary at first, but here I go. Beginning February 1st 2008, I will boldly go into a new frontier -- teaching my first online workshop.

In another age, a young woman perused the ads in an issue of Starlog magazine and wrote a letter to a fanzine editor, taking the first tentative step into what would become over a decade of playing in sandboxes rightly owned by Star Trek, Highlander and other "universes." She took beloved characters off on tangents, twisted time and space and yet knew something was missing. There were zines, sites, conventions, and the still small voice that finally urged her to take the plunge and dive into her real love, historical romance.

It was scary at first, venturing away from established places and characters, but her own ideas had begun to go further and further from what had attracted her in the first place, and she knew it was time to move on.

Along the way, she met many friends, talented writers all, who also wanted to make the same journey. They shared ideas, shared struggles, and cheered each other on. The young woman, more comfortale writing about butter churns or farthingales than transporters or spacesuits, knew she could use many of the techniques she first learned in her new venture. So came the idea of the workshop.

Really, if I can dress up in full Klingon gear in public, I can teach a class from the comfort of my office chair. Or maybe from under it.

Good review #2 from Dear Author!

Sail on over here and see what Jayne has to say about "Queen of the Ocean." Read the review and leave your own comment if you feel so moved.

Also visit my entry at Unusual Historicals this month for a look at some of the fashions of prior eras --some may be funny looking to us, but it was hot stuff for them. Add your own fashion foibles from any era, or defend any favorites others have pooh-poohed. There's also a gorgeous streaming banner of the Unusual Historicals writers' book covers that alone is worth a look.

Currently crawling out from the bug that swept our family, but devouring Monica McCarty's debut Highlander trilogy as I do, so I'm welcoming the reading time.

Also getting ready to celebrate another writer buddy's success. My friend and longtime critique partner, M.P. Barker's debut YA historical novel, A Difficult Boy, is availiable for preorder at Amazon.com. Woo and hoo! Really really good book, really really good author, and amazing friend. Can't wait to celebrate her success.

New/used laptop arrived last night; we're calling him Harvey (full name Harvey the Wonder Hamster, which was my dad's "code name" during his last year.) Harvey is a reconditioned senior gent of a laptop, a Dell Latitude, going all retro with his Windows Millenium. (extra points for anyone else who now has the Robbie Wiliams song stuck in their heads) Still trying to figure out how his internet card works and if there really is an A drive like the puter says there is, but it has Word, which is my one essential-essential, so I theoretically can take my act on the road when needed/wanted. Huzzah.

Which may have to happen, as real life has smacked me another one. Another elderly relative in hospital, sent from nursing home, so we're putting in a good deal of hospital time in the evenings until thing settle. Hopefully in the good direction.

Let's go Dutch

I'm over at Unusual Historicals today, blathering about one of my niche interests, namely Dutch stuff in romance. Go see.

Back in the saddle again.

Yesterday was several hours of sorting through random boxes of stuff at my Dad's house which is now my aunt's house. Stuff that needs doing. Today is the first real day of being back at the work of writing. Which is also stuff that needs doing. Writers write.

Last night, I sprawled on the bed with the notebook for one of my WIPs, reacquainting myself with the whos and whats and whens, and today was the same thing with a blank book for another project. It's an interesting sort of homecoming, going over stuff that's at once strange and familiar. There are the "I forgot about that" moments, the "hey, this is pretty good" moments and the "I can't believe I never patched *that* hole" moments. There are the moments when a turn of the page is the most perfect time machine ever created, and I'm swept from the present day into sixteenth century Amsterdam or seventeenth century England, the high seas, what have you.

The weather today has been cool (seventies) and off and on rainy -- good writing weather. True, all today's writing has been in the letter variety, but a letter to a writer friend I'll be collaborating with in the fall, so it counts. It feels natural to fall back into the rhythm of storytelling.

Also on the agenda is the big scary thing for us writer types. Submission. Completed manuscripts cannot be allowed to lounge around like an old college buddy who's been crashing on the couch for several years, leaving Cheeto crumbs between the cushions and never putting the lid back on the Diet Coke. Nope, stories, get out there and work for me; you have to finance the ones that are coming now that I have my mojo back.

Another month, another entry...

I really don't mean to be this quiet, but the current projects are eating me whole, I'm off to the Long Island Romance Writer's Luncheon this coming Friday (not tomorrow, the next week) and if anyone out there knows how to use playlists on an RCA Pearl mp3 player, I will lurve you forever and ever and think of you fondly in my dotage, which should be arriving any minute now.

I'm a little on the stompy side lately. DH finally got his week's vacation, and got smacked with exhaustion, gout and a cold. Yep, all at once. He's edging on feeling human, and it's near the end of the week. Hopefully he'll be up to the daytrip we've planned for Saturday.

Also stompy is the fact that I had to take a couple of days to refill the creative well. Those of you who know me well know that I want to work all the time, and taking time out to read, play Sims2, fiddle with playlists (see above) or watch TV, which do fill the creative well and are good and needed, annoy me because I want to be doing something. Doing something meaning output.

The past year was hectic and beyond with real life stuff and the last month or so, I finally, finally got back on track with production, ideas sprouting left and right, and it felt good. I mean goooood. Really good. So when I gave an extra big creativity push, feuled by stress of basically being the only family member not on vacation this week, of course things are going to hit a wall. It's temporary, and I'll be raring to go again in a day or so, grumbling about having to step away from the computer for things like food, hygiene, worship, family, the house being on fire, etc.

That said, five random things I haven't said in response to message board threads:

1. What on earth is wrong with romances having a happy ending? Isn't that like having cops in police procedurals?
2. Do I get stoned if I say I like my romance heroines young and beautiful?
3. Age differences in romance don't bother me. Really. Maybe it's because I have friends with successful marriages who have age differences, sometimes big ones, or maybe it's because it's historically plausible, or maybe it's because I don't, all right? ::passes out free Godivas::
4. Xnay with the egencyray for a while, please. I like it better when it isn't the only choice out there.
5. I want Marsha Canham back, too, but if she's busy, I'll step in. Really. Publishers, I have manuscripts.

My Brain is Full

I came to an important conclusion sometime today. My brain is full. After pumping a critique partner's brain for specialized job information last night, then having critique group at which I had to talk about process, and carry that over to a day spent researching facts I need to know for a current project, I hit my limit.

For those who know me, when I tell you that all of the facts I had to find had numbers in them, you will know what those horrible sounds coming from my office were. Especially when I have to see if the numbers will play nice with each other and find a way to explain why things have to happen even if the numbers normally would not get along. Did I ever mention that in college, I failed the supereasy math class twice? Yes, I was trying. I do not have a number center in my brain. I traded it in for more story space. This is why I can memorize shipping routes in the 16th century, all of Henry VIII's wives, in order, with the reason he was no longer married to each one of them, and carry long lists of song lyrics in my head but cannot remember street names in the town where I live.

I've been listening to a new playlist while writing this week (because it took me this long to figure out how to access the subscription feature on Yahoo Jukebox) and only today have I been able to remind myself that the weird sound at the end of "One Week" by Barenaked Ladies is not the cat throwing up. The cat is very glad I have figured this out.

This morning when checking the weather forecast, my brain somehow read "65" as "85" so of course I dressed for near ninety degree weather, and soon regretted that. We are not going to go into why I have an old pajama top festooned with doggy faces where I catsit, but I was glad it was there this morning. Also very glad the puter I use does not have a webcam.

In an email exchange with my friend, Kara, I referenced the Trek convention many years ago when a friend asked me to hold her infant and watch her dealer table while she and her husband took a much needed break. No problems with watching the table or the baby, who snoozed the whole time, even though the table was next to a mockup of the Enterprise-D bridge, complete with red alert alarm that went off at irregular intervals. Every single time it went off, my first thought was "must get baby to nursery and respond." This, boys and girls, is when one knows it is time to get out of a fandom. Or at the very least take a break once in a while.

The afternoon I had is another one of those "hey, doofus, take a break" moments. While the research I did today was needed and I got the information I wanted, and that will help shape the story, the focus for me is always on the growing love relationship between the h/h. Time to crack open one of the nice big historicals in my growing TBR pile and read in the glow of my real life hero's puter screen as he plays solitaire. Even though I have a hard time stopping to refuel, it's better than bottoming out.

Big errandy weekend, so today had to be something of very little brain; office decluttering. In which Anna uncovers scads of old notebooks (and by scads I mean seven if we can count one made up of graph paper and one that is actually a legal pad)with only some of the pages written on.

I heeded the call of adventure, sorted through the pages that had ink on them and figured out what I wanted to keep (which got either transcribed or filed) and rip out, shred and dispose of what I didn't. There is this dark reddish fuzzy thing on the floor that they tell me is called "carpet." Does everyone have this "carpet" stuff under their notebook stacks? The cat seems to like to sharpen her claws in it.

Some of the stuff I found in the old notebooks was surprisingly good, some surprisingly not, some flat out weird, but it was a good journey on the whole. Plus now I have seven (six if I don't count the graph paper one, but then again I need it for Sims house planning) newish notebooks in which to doodle, vent, freewrite or whatever strikes my fancy at the moment. They are all in a pile where I can grab them when I need a blank notebook.

Which is different from a blank book. I will spend money on beautiful blank books and those I hoard with fierce protective instincts, for years if I have to, until I get exactly the right idea to go in exactly the right book. So don't be surprised if, when gifted with a gorgeous blank book, I shower it with profuse thanks and then stick it directly in the blank book bookcase. The spiral notebooks/legal pads, though, I can grab anytime.

Genre-lly Speaking

I've been madly in love with historical romance since I read my first one, The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, when I was eleven years old. The story of the Scottish noblewoman betrayed and sold into slavery in the Ottoman Empire, and managed to triumph over all -- and find the love of a lifetime to boot, yeah, that was it. I was hooked. Okay, I was a bit young, but it was the drama and the history that kept me filching books from my mother's stash, and I knew that was what I wanted to write for the rest of my life.

Looking back now, I remember the big bags of books my Aunt Lucy (mom's sister) brought my mom on every visit. Lots of seminal (no pun intended) books of the genre passed through my innocent hands, and while I admired the beautiful covers by artists such as Elaine Gignilliat, Robert McGinnis and my all time favorite, Elaine Duillo and even made up my own story ideas to go with them, it wasn't until I read The Kadin that I actually cracked a cover. Early Rogers, Deveraux, Woodiwiss and more would have to wait a while for me to discover them, but they would come in time.

Fast forward to college. Karen, another gal in my dorm, once tracked me down with Valerie Sherwood's Lovesong and in the most serious tone I'd ever heard her use, told me I had to read this. As with The Kadin, I think that was an appointment. Fast forward a few more years and I am standing in the chill wind of a not yet spring day, pay phone glued to my ear because I will wait however long it takes for the owner of the local independent bookstore to search her shelves and see if there is a copy of Francine Rivers' Redeeming Love because I had to have it right then. Okay, I couldn't actually pick it up for a few more days but if I knew it was waiting behind the counter for me, I could sleep easy.

I used to comb the weekly flea market at a local mall for new treasures, big, thick historicals by old favorites or new discoveries, set in any number of places and times. I'm a big advocate of buying new, whenever I can, but at that point in my life, flea market was what I could do. As long as there was a dashing hero with chinks in his alpha-armor, and a strong, intelligent, beautiful heroine who was his ultimate match, I was --and am-- a happy camper. US Civil War? Okay. Sixteenth century Spain? By all means. Medieval France? You got it. Australia back when it was New South Wales? Got that covered. Tudor court intrigue? Vikings? Pirates? Crusaders? Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Most books weren't in a series then. Sure, there were the occasional second go-rounds for an exceptional couple or a particularly outstanding couple's daughter or son would have a story, but it wasn't the norm as it is now. I find I enjoyed connected books more then than I do now, maybe because they were the exception rather than the rule.

Even with all these variations, there was one thing above all that kept me coming back for more, kept me thinking that someday I would have my name on one of those covers -- the central love story. The one hero and one heroine who were each other's match, a love worthy of legend.

Fittingly enough, I have Melissa Etheridge's "I'm The Only One" playing as I write this entry, and I think that fits why I love the historical romance genre as much as I do.

Me again! I am alive, really. I am also alive at Unusual Historicals

My introduction went up on January 12th and I'll start with actual posts soon. I already feel right at home there.

First review for "Never Too Late" is in at The Romance Studio, and they like me, they really like me!

I have an early morning date with my laptop to make up for no writing on the weekend, but we did get to interview potential caregivers for my dad. If all goes according to plan, we may be able to get him back in his home as early as February.

Still no snow, but a good review can distract me from that, no problem.

Kara wanted a photo of Olivia kitty, so here it is. I think Olivia's choice of reading material is appropriate, since I've discovered a fabulous new blog today:

http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com/

Exactly my kind of place. I'll admit my heart did a little skip when I saw Morag McKendrick Pippin as one of the bloggers.

Francesca, one of my cat-sitting charges. This photo, taken by her mum, Marilyn, reminds me of a Mucha image. No idea why. Gotta love the expression. It ties in with the Bad Cat calendar I'm using this year for my day-by-day, so I figured she was appropriate to post here today.

Again, a whole month gone by. Yikes. Can't believe it's another year already. Though I have to admit, having all these neat new Blogger toys will likely entice me to post with my former frequency. Hopefully, there will be lots to report.

This was a good New Year's weekend. Slept through the actual midnight moment, then spent the afternoon of the first at my friend Michele's house at her annual potluck/book swap thing. Very relaxing, except for the moment of white hot panic when I remembered that I will be speaking at Michele's book club next month. Erp. Room full of people who read my book. Another guest, who is a romance reader, mentioned that she's probably the only regular romance reader in the group. Guess that means My Outcast Heart is the very first romance novel most of them have read. I'm going to consider it an honor. Maybe some will want to read more, maybe some won't, but at least they'll have been exposed.

Wow, has it really been nearly a month?

[IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v72/Unzadi/Olivia.jpg[/IMG]

Olivia kitty says if I'd put her in charge of my blog, this would not happen. She's probably right. Cats can often be furry day planners, and I think they have a lot to teach us (okay, me) about punctuality.

Once again, real life chewed me up and spit me back out. Not always fun, but we get through it.

A big step in getting through it has been reclaiming my home office. Like a garden gone to seed, it had long since gone to storage. It didn't get that way overnight, so it's going to take a while to get it back to what it should be, but I've staked my claim with laptop and Mrs. Tea (albeit sitting atop my Caboodle makeup case until I can figure out how to get the miniscule power cord to reach a normal outlet) and with a small change in schedule, I've carved out some time to get my groove back.

Of course there are still vestiges of crud that need to be dealt with, but all in good time. I have the small tinned candle I got from last year's Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference on my desk, and the new rule is that if the candle is lit, I am writing. Doesn't have to be good, doesn't have to be usable, doesn't even have to have anything to do with the manuscript I'm currently creating, but it does have to be written. Discipline first, then content will follow.

So far this week, I've managed to fill several pages with notes on old Highlander episodes and what I think is going on in songs off a recently rediscovered CD. Let me tell you, this office is archealogy central at the moment. Kind of funny to look at things that once held my interest, but no longer do, as I revise stories that will be rereleased this spring -- but then again, I need who I was to be who I am.

That, my dears, is the deep thought for the day.