Mea Culpa

I totally screwed up. Somehow, I didn't provide the right link to Mike's story from my September 11th post. Please try again--it's worth it. Click here.

Where Ideas Come From

I haven’t talked too much lately about the Nano WIP, but fear not, trusty blogreaders. It’s full steam ahead!

Mostly due to a lot of driving. First, there was the Labor Day jaunt towards Santa Barbara (okay, let’s be honest—the Chumash Casino—but, seriously, I only went for the air conditioning), then there have been the daily hospital visits requiring 45 minutes each way.

To make constructive use of the time, I’ve been turning down the radio volume (hm...why don’t I just turn it OFF?), and letting my characters run around in my brain trying to sort themselves out. Well, all I can say is: Eureka! I should do a lot more driving!

Case in point…all along, I’ve been waiting for Daphne’s motivation to come to me. In other words, I know what she wants; I just don’t know why she wants it. Oh, a few ideas kept floating around, but I didn’t have anything to “hang” them on. And, I don’t believe in tossing stuff into the mix without grounding it somehow—and without having more than one reason for it to be there.

Most of the characters I create have parental “issues,” which is a little embarrassing ‘cuz I have wonderful parents, and if they ever read any of my books, there’s gonna be ‘splaining to do. In any event, one of the options I’ve been keeping in reserve for Daphne is the relationship she has with her mother. But I didn’t have any plans to bring Mom on scene, so I kept discarding the idea.

Until now.

‘Cuz meanwhile, I ran into a stumbling block where Daphne and Josh have finally admitted their attraction to each other, but I can’t let them act on it yet—I need a space of time to elapse first. I was able to stall them off a couple days by forcing Daphne to look after a sick kid (don’t worry—I haul in a couple plot threads to coincide with this event), but then what…? How to keep them apart?

LIGHT BULB.

Nothing derails a budding relationship better than a surprise visit from Mom, right?? So, here comes Mom…and with her appearance on scene, I can go back and weave in all the baggage she arrives with. Yippee!

Maybe I should plan a cross country road trip for plotting out my next book.

Never Forget

My first memory of Mike was when he sat down beside me in a crowded economics class circa 1972. He wasn’t hard to miss, nor forget. A portly guy with an easy smile, a ruddy face, and vacant blue eyes.

His guide dog sat obediently at his feet.

I didn’t really meet Mike until four years later in a graduate seminar in Interpersonal Dynamics. We’d been assigned to the same group and would spend an entire quarter on a project designed to teach us how to work effectively as a team. The task was to pick a project—as banal as putting together a volley ball game or having a dinner party—then observe the process of how we went about doling out tasks, assuming leadership roles, dealing with conflict, and so forth. All skills to be used later when we entered the world armed with freshly-minted MBAs.

Besides Mike and me, our group consisted of an older Asian female mom, a transfer student from Spain, a highly-charged Type-A male, and an easy going young man who always went with the flow.

For some reason, we didn’t take an easy path toward satisfying the requirements of the class. We didn’t just plan a dinner—we planned a 24-hour, overnight stay, at my parents’ house up in Lake Arrowhead.

I’ll never forget our arrival. Instantly, as Mike and his dog stumbled into furniture and as the toddler (brought by the Asian mom along with an adult sister) yanked everything in sight off tables, I questioned the wisdom of having invited this motley crew to my folks’ pristine home. But in the end, we all settled down, accomplished our task, and at the end of the quarter received an A on the paper that I mostly wrote.

Twenty-seven years would pass before I saw Mike again. This time on television. Larry King, to be exact.

A couple days after 9-1-1.

Do you remember the story of the blind man who walked down 78 floors to get out of the first tower?

My old friend, Mike.

Read the riveting account of how Mike escaped on that fateful morning here.

Ground Zero January 2002

The Countdown Has Begun!

Yes, faithful blogreaders, it's that time of year. Time to count down the days to my birthday! In case you haven't got a calendar, allow me to remind you there are only 6 or 7 shopping days (depending on how you count) until the Big Day! And, to aid you in your search for the appropriate gift, I've thoughtfully provided a list of stuff I need.

1. New car (only, it doesn't have to be BRAND new--a USED Mercedes will do).
2. New laptop (with the wireless internet thingy, please!)
3. New camcorder (you really don't want me lugging around the relic I currently own, do you? So gauche!)
4. New gowns for the October cruise (er, you may wanna go ahead and get them in a size 10--sadly, I don't think I'll be back down to an 8 in time)
5. Ipod (please do the research and take your best shot)
6. 1000 shares of Google stock--the gift that keeps on giving
7. Big ol' plasma screen TV--the better to watch all my reality shows on
8. Okay, if you're REALLY stymied and ya gotta few bucks to spare, how about a small yacht for the beach house I'm renovating? Something in the forty-foot vicinity would be nice...
9. Vacation vouchers are ALWAYS appreciated--especially if they include first class airline tickets and rooms at the Ritz Carlton. (Just sayin')
10. Lastly, since I hate to be a pain in the wallet...I offer this cash-free option...howzabout...um...a publishing contract?

I really ask for so little from life.

Even In A Crisis...

Me: I'm gonna have to run home and change before I go to the hospital. Daddy won't like what I'm wearing.

Stepmom: Good idea. I'll see you later.

Not: Oh honey, don't worry about it. He'll be coming out of surgery, and just being there is what counts.

No, no, no--in my family, appearance MATTERS, so it's a good thing I got over it a long time ago, huh? Otherwise, I'd be one of those dysfunctional daughters suffering from never-measures-up-itis. (I mean, more than the norm.)

So I showed up, properly attired, just in time to accompany him from recovery to his room.

Me: You did GOOD, Daddy. The doctor says you tolerated the surgery well.

Him: Surgery? Did I already have surgery?

Not: What on earth are you wearing, and couldn't you have polished your shoes?

Still...I was comfortable knowing that were he in the least coherent, I was prepared. (You don't get to be 53 years old without learning something.)

Sidenote: For you blogreaders who know me (and know my dad!), here's the deal. We took him to the ER Tuesday night with severe pain. (Ah, ER's...enough for a separate post.) Anyway, turned out to be...are you ready?...a ruptured appendix! Yes, in an 84-year old! Who'da thunk? 'Course any medical procedure on someone with immune and cardio issues (oh, and on COUMADIN) isn't exactly a GOOD thing, but given the possibilities, definitely not the worst news we could have heard. Yesterday (24 hours after surgery) he was up and walking around, so I'm generally pleased.

This'll Be Me

Oh, That's Perfect

Along with the blistering heat, my cable just went out. And I have to keep saving my WIP every few minutes because the power's gone off twice.

Happy Labor Day, everyone!

I can't WAIT to go back to work tomorrow. :(

Are You Feeling A Bit Ripped Off?

I am.

All the hoopla surrounding Becks and Posh moving to L.A....what a bust, huh? Not that I understood what the big deal was, anyway. I mean, he's a soccer star (trust me, no one cares about soccer in southern California--nor the rest of the country, for that matter) and she's a former Spice Girl. So friggin' what? Did their move to L.A. really warrant 24/7 coverage (not to mention an hour-long television special???).

Now it appears David Beckham is out for the rest of the season. I even hear they may be moving back to England.

Guess they'll be totin' along that kajillion dollar contract with them.

Where do I sign up to be a Spice Girl?

Public Service Announcement

See? This is why I like having a blog--so I can pass along important information when it comes my way. Today's critical lesson is the following:

It turns out that when inadvertently placed near a curling iron, reading glasses will, in fact, melt.

Case in point:Folks, don't try this at home.

I Love Trouble!

Especially when she comes with 12 million $$$$$$$$

So, prepare yourself for posts on gourmet doggie treats and solid gold pooper scoopers, 'cuz I'm goin' a-courtin' as soon as the check clears.

Yes...it'll be a life rich with walks in Central Park...hanging around fire hydrants, sniffing out the rich and famous...I can't wait.

Man, talk about a fortune "going to the dogs."

I FOUND It ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

If you haven't read the earlier post, go read it first, then come back here to discover that...I FOUND IT!!! I FOUND my PASSPORT!

You may have guessed by now that I'd become obsessively CONSUMED by this predicament. Not because I couldn't go and get another one (although, geez...what a hassle), but because I KNEW it had to be here SOMEWHERE.

Well, after getting home and actually (euw) pawing through the debris in my garage...and after the tenth time of going through the junk in my nightstand...I gave up ONCE AGAIN and decided (get this!) to do some laundry. (I know. On a TUESDAY. What are the odds?)

And while the water began filling the tub...what do I spy on my dryer??? The BAG for my VIDEOCAM. (That's not where you keep YOURS?). Of course, I say, slapping my head. I'd checked my travel purse, I'd checked the briefcase I carry my laptop in...but NOT the camera bag!!

And there the little sucker was. Lying all safe and secure, with all its irreplaceable stamps intact.

Now, see? A more anal person would have already started proceedings to get another one. (Yeah, yeah...I hear ya. A more anal person wouldn't have lost it in the first place.)

The important thing is, I can go on living now. (Oh, and that hypothetical I posed below?? I'm ready! Now all I have to do is find the MAN.........)

I Feel So NAKED...

...without my passport.

I mean, what if...WHAT IF...I were to meet some man who wanted to whisk me away to Paris for Labor Day Weekend? Where would I be then, huh? Sorry, man-of-my-dreams...how about Bakersfield instead?

Yeah, dilemma with a capital D.

Looks like I'm gonna have to break down and get another one (oh, the humanity). Turns out this may not be as easy as it seems. First, I have to report the original one lost or stolen, and guess what they wanna know? Yeah. The number...

New search.

See, here's the thing. I can put my grubby little hands on a zillion travel records, going back to the airline ticket receipts from my trip to Norway in 2001 and the one to Argentina in 1999...and all the cruises in between where I used my passport for identification. Not one document bears the number.

Okay, square one. Birth certificate. Hm...used to have two copies...somewhere.

No birth certificate, either.

Maybe I'm not supposed to go anywhere in October. (Ya think??)

The sad part of this whole debacle is that I KNOW WHERE THE PASSPORT'S SUPPOSED TO BE. It just isn't there.

I must have (gulp) tossed it in the trash at some point. It's the only answer. (Which would be totally out of character since...y'know...it implies I was actually cleaning...)

So, I'm off to re-establish my identity...because, like Tiger Woods on a Sunday afternoon in Augusta, it's a sure bet I'll find this crap as soon as I order the new stuff.

Saturday In Santa Monica

In my late thirties, my social life consisted pretty much of the following:

On Fridays, I'd drive in to the Valley to Andi's house. She'd whip up a fabulous meal and we'd sit on her patio smoking cigarettes, drinking champagne, and solving the world's problems. (Okay, I'm sure the subject of men came up on occasion, but not as often as you'd expect).

On Saturdays, I'd catch up with Kathleen, my singles buddy. Since she lived in Santa Monica, I'd drive up the coast to her, she'd drive down the coast to me, or we'd meet somewhere in the middle, like Malibu.

All that changed on January 14, 1994.

Yep, that's the day the earth shook.

I didn't know it at the time, but lots of stuff was about to change, including my social life.

Andi's house in Woodland Hills was a shambles...and, more importantly, an asbestos trap. She promptly moved in with her boyfriend (later her husband) down in Santa Monica. There went the Friday night dinners.

St. John's Hospital, where Kathy worked as a respiratory therapist, closed indefinitely and employees were told they'd have to reapply for their jobs when it re-opened. The hell with that, Kathy thought. She bought a condo in Laguna Niguel and moved away.

There went my singles buddy.

So yesterday, as I drove down the coast to Andi's for a reunion of sorts, I felt like I was "driving down the route of my thirties" and here I am, now in my fifties. Eeek. A long time has passed. And, how pathetic is this?? It's August, I live 20 minutes from the beach, and this is the first time I've seen the ocean all season.

A lot has changed on PCH. The two bars we used to frequent have been shut for ages, but it appears something's in the work to take their place. These days, the "in people" frequent the "Polaroid House" which I was dying to swing by, but...well, I feared there may be some sort of invisible age barrier...y'know, like those things they put up to keep dogs in their place? Ha.

As I made my way through the beach traffic I half-expected a pack of paparazzi (paps, as they're now called) to come speeding around a corner, but it was a slow day for celebrities. (Oh, and I'll bet motorists on PCH are basking in a sense of security now that La Lohan is tucked safely away in a Utah rehab center.)

Anyway, I met Kathy at Gladstone's where I took this picture.

Later we met up with old college-era friends at Andi

and Scott's cool, cool, house. And I just can't figure out how to make sense of the way Blogger wants to arrange these pictures, so I'll just end the commentary here except to explain that the photo of the woman with the head chopped off is meant to demonstrate that it's possible for old ladies like us to wear four-inch heels. (Okay, I confess. They were MY shoes, and she was using them to impress her husband...by the way, it worked.)

The Upside To Spring Cleaning

Sometimes you run across stuff to make you smile. (By the way, no sign of the passport...yet.) Anyway, thought I'd share. All together now: AAAAWWWWWWW.

The late great Kody-boy in his festive bow tie.

Story Premise

Back in my twenties, I'd get an idea for a romance novel, write the first thirty pages, and then stick it in a random drawer someplace. Out of sight, out of mind. A zillion unfinished stories.

Flash forward a couple decades. I took a community class, taught by a Silhouette author, about writing romance novels.

Light bulb.

Those ideas I had? They weren't STORY IDEAS, they were CUTE MEETS. As in, what brings the hero and heroine together in the beginning. Turns out that's the fun part for me. Full of sexual tension, misunderstandings, misinterpretations--lots of energy. It's what comes next that's the hard part. Fleshing out the cute meet into four hundred pages takes, uh, more effort.

Which is why, as I flitted back and forth between my WIP and the beginning of a short story last night, I found the latter easier and more satisfying to write. Since I'm a pantser, I have no idea who this couple is yet. Don't know their backstory, their wounds, or what will make them fall in love with each other. All those answers will come in the space of about 25 pages. So far, in the eight I've sold to True Romance (one to True Experience), a STORY has always evolved from the process.

Not so with all of the long stuff I've written. Sometimes, the initial foundation isn't strong enough to hold a full-fledged book. Unfortunately, you don't find this out before investing months and months of writing time.

Depending on how you count, my current WIP is approximately (?) my fourth (fifth?) "real" manuscript. I've got about 80 pages to go and I'm happy to report that apparently I've learned to lay the proper foundation. There's plenty goin' on in this book.

And it's certainly about more than the "cute meet."

Yes, I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (gee, how long ago did we here at the old blog remember seeing the dim light ahead for Leftovers??) . Anyway, I know because I'm getting antsy about being able to pitch it. Always a great motivator for me.

Now if only I could come up with the KILLER title.

Drastic Measures

Yes, it's finally come to this: I may actually have to clean my room.

See, here's the deal. Ever since embarking on the so-called writing career, I've accumulated a slew of books and associated paper paraphernalia from all the conferences I've attended. Not being the organized sort, I've been storing this crap in (relatively) neat piles in all four corners of my bedroom. Well, if I'm honest, I have to admit we've gone way past using only the corners.

Anyway, I went to look for my passport last night.

Uh-oh.

I was so CERTAIN it was buried somewhere in the stack next to my bed...until I pawed through it and found zilch, nada, nothing. Oh, except for that cute little pink index card on which I wrote my five goals during the Reno conference in 2005. That was good for a hoot. Then there were the miscellaneous rejection letters I haven't been able to part with (nor file).

But no passport.

Doncha hate when you KNOW where something is...but you don't know where it is?

Sigh. Spring cleaning in August. It's just not right.

The Hits Just Keep on Comin'

Another contract in the mail today from Dorchester! Woo Hoo!

Tentatively scheduled for November, "For The Love Of Dog" is about a man and woman thrust into joint custody of a manipulative pooch owned by their late friend.

I had a blast writing it!

On Stands Now

Be sure to grab your copy of the September issue of True Romance Magazine. I picked one up yesterday and was delighted to see a very cute (and colorful!) cover page for my story, Lucky Strike. Yes, it's about a singles bowling league, and YES, I once bowled in one. Hey, when you get to be my age while remaining single, you've tried everything...which is how come I get frustrated by these "youngsters" with publishing deals. Hell, the pipsqueaks haven't LIVED yet!!

Why It Pays To Write The Short Stuff

…and I’m not just talking about the “mailbox money” I’m earning from writing for “the Trues.”

1. Keeps your writing muscles exercised.

2. Allows you to more easily grasp an entire story arc since the writing process is truncated.

3. Can actually increase your productivity. Writing 10 pages in a day is MUCH easier when you can type THE END at, er, THE END.

4. Is a great distraction from working on your novel-length story. Meaning, when you’re stalled on the WIP, you can get a fresh perspective from writing something different without totally switching gears for a long period of time.

5. Rinse, lather, repeat. When you write a bunch of these in succession, you start to get the rhythm of what a story—of any length—really boils down to.

6. Psychological success. In between waiting for hell to freeze over while your manuscript claws its way to the top of the slush, it’s nice to get a little positive reinforcement. (Item 6 is also known as the You Love Me, You Really Love Me factor).

7. Keeps you legal. While waiting for “the call,” having income to report on your tax return keeps the IRS from laughing hysterically at your deductions.

8. Makes you a hit at cocktail parties. Okay, so they’d be more impressed if you introduced yourself as J.K. Rowling. Still…some people are fascinated to hear you write for “those magazines.”

9. Makes you a hit at cocktail parties, part 2. Hey, these stories are true, right? Try telling people all those lurid tales really happened to someone “you know.”

10. Hey, sometimes in life, there are only NINE.

Practice What You Preach Updated*

... or, at least pay attention to your own blog posts.

That's what I'm trying to do tonight. Yes, it's back to the WIP, the infamous NaNo whirl WIP. 52,000 (*updated 53,500--woo friggin hoo) words and stalled for months. I finally finished the chapter I started in...oh...I dunno...April? Take it from me: when this happens, do something, ANYTHING, to move forward. Write a scene out of order. Um...write...um...oh, hell...just write.

And I did.

I know what comes next now. Kinda.

But, in the meantime, that Michael Hague workshop (see previous post) is reverberating in my head like a school teacher drumming in times tables.

Unhealed wound. Unhealed wound.

I've been waiting for Daphne to reveal it to me, but dammit...so far, she's keeping her secrets close to the vest. Oh, I've seen some hints here and there, but not enough to hang her entire character arc on.

She'd better hurry up.

I DO have a bit of a fall-back position. Something I brainstormed months ago. But if the idea were so brilliant, wouldn't it have folded its way into her character by now?

Nope. Not happening.

Yet.

Meanwhile, I was searching for an earlier passage--one I knew planted a seed for the direction the next chapter should/may/will take. When I found it, I read several scenes.

Man, I like this book. Always have.

But I need to do it justice.

I need to find the unhealed wound.