I read an article recently about inspiration. Doesn't inspiration come from life itself? I do something odd from time to time, when I'm between books. I'll take my notebook and go out and sketch the world. Not in drawings, but in words. I'll watch people and take the third man in a line, the second woman on the street, the couple on the park bench and describe them. Take this entry from my journal.

My name is Samuel Herrmann. Although my name sounds German, my father disavowed any ties to that country in World War II. Sometimes, I think he would have liked to change the name but his family wouldn't permit it. I'm too thin, I know, but I've recently been sick, which makes the jacket I'm wearing hang from the shoulders. My wife, if she were still alive, would fuss at me to buy something new, but there isn't money enough for things like new clothes. Not while my daughter's away at school.

I didn't know what the man's name is, or his background, but my imagination saw a few things about him and immediately made up a story around it. I'm insanely curiously about people. I want to know everything. If I don't know it, I imagine it.

If I weren't basically a reserved person, would I be the worse gossip in the world? I don't know. I don't really want to tell anyone what I've learned, I just want to learn it.

Imagination comes in handy for filling in the gaps.

Do you think there's anything in the notion that some people like cats and some people only like dogs?

Are cat people introverted? Dog people extroverted?
Dog people happy? Cat people unhappy?
More women than men like cats? Why is that, if it's true?
Why do people dislike cats? Sneaky? Sly? Jumping on people without warning?

I'm procrastinating, can you tell? But I have to write this article, see, and it's not coming out like I want, see, and why the hell have I segued into a Cagney impression? Wasn't yesterday the anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death? Why DO we make heroes of our celebrities? Is it to make up for the lack of luster in our own lives?

Too many questions. I'm going back to work.

[30 july 2005] 5:17 am - starbucks

You're going to think I live in a cave.  Or under a rock.  Until a year ago, I had never crossed the threshold of a Starbucks.  Never drank anything but instant coffee.  (I know, I know, I can feel your shudder.) 

About a year ago now, I decided to be brave.  The Starbucks was right next to a place where I had an appointment, and I was really early (more on that later - I'm always early).  So, I walked in, threw myself on the mercy of a pert young thing behind the counter and said, "Look, I just want coffee.  Nothing fancy, just coffee."  I can still remember the blinding whiteness of her smile.  Being that perky has to be due to all those caffeine fumes, don't you think?  I could do without the degree of perkiness, but the bright-eyed eagerness is charming.  (However, the longer I've been a patron of Starbucks, the more I want to tell them to tone down the perkiness.  Being greeted at 5:30 AM with a "Good morning" from twenty paces is a bit disconcerting.) 

I sipped at my very first Starbucks brew.  My eyes popped open, my eyebrows arched.  The roots of my hair tingled.  I took a sip, looked at the cup, took another sip.  I think I drank the whole thing down as soon as the lava-like temperature cooled sufficiently.  Not yum.  Wow.  The caffeine went to every cell in my body.  "Boys, girls, wakensie up!" 

Needless to say, I have become an addict. 

In the past, my coffee making apparatus (what's the plural of apparatus?  shouldn't it be apparatti?) consisted of a spoon. I now have a Cuisinart brewmaster thingee that sits on my counter in glorious stainless steel hauteur.  In fact, the Cuisnart (which defies the plebian name of coffee-maker) is very French in its attitude.  Thank heavens I have a Cuisinart food processor. 

Of course I have to have Starbucks coffee.  Of course, it has to have a special grinder for the coffee beans.  I also have a stainless thermos, a Starbucks travel mug, a Starbucks thermal mug, and about eight various and sundry Starbucks cups. 

Once upon a time, I was content with a jar of Folgers and a cup of hot water.  Those days are gone, and I can never return.  I wonder what else I'm missing? 

However, and this is a point of some pride, I still drink plain coffee.  Black.  No "reverse over under half-caf, no-fat, low foam, double suc, hazelnut, double-shot".  Huh?   

[29 july 2005] 9:57 am - bear with me part IIi

Well, unfortunately, it isn't exhaustion.  Sigh.  It's something viral.  Gag.  But, when I need to excuse myself, I shall do so and you'll never know.  However, this blog may take 5 hours to write.  Dear heavens, I hope the new chapter doesn't sucketh the biggeth one. 

Okay, where were we?  Oh, my theory.  Here goes: 

Writers have their characters do some pretty reprehensible things.  But there's always a line they don't cross.  I personally don't know each author's unh-unh moment.  I know mine.  I've always maintained that I would never like to have Stephen King's mind.  Why?  The products of his imagination, his characters, his uncanny ability to twist the normal into the abnormal, has to begin somewhere.  It begins, I believe, in the psyche. 

In A Promise of Love, Judith, the heroine, went through some really ghastly things.  Repeated rape, abuse by her husband, that sort of thing.  At that particular time in my life that was acceptable to me.  It isn't now.  I couldn't write those sort of scenes now, and would write around them.  For the same reason, I couldn't write about Hannibal Lecter.  My preferences have nothing to do with my ability to write these types of books and have everything to do with my choosing not to do so. 

I think an author's moral authority shines through each of his/her books.  By moral authority, I mean her limits and boundaries as a human being.  I have read one particular author's immense body of work and I'm left with the certainty that she is either fascinated with the topic of childhood abuse, or it's had a profound impact on her life.  Every third book features a character who's been a victim of some sexual trauma.  Or, it could be lazy writing - she's using shorthand to create a character type - oh, let's have her gain some depth by being a victim.  Either way, the author's character shines through.  Either she was traumatized, or she's rather shallow in the fact that she sees nothing wrong with portraying a character in such a fashion. 

In one of my previous books, I had a chapter of skanky villian sex.  I won't do it now.  I haven't gotten more pure and virtuous, I just don't like writing sex for the sake of sex.  I've said it a hundred times, but it's really easy to write a sex scene, but it's damned difficult to write a love scene. 

Let me confess something else.  I can't write certain words.  I can't type certain words.  I do object to them and I do not use them in my personal life.  Trust me, I haven 't been Pollyanna Pureblood in my life, but I can't honestly remember a scenario when a lover turned to me and said, "Baby, your c _ _ t is so wet."  I would have slapped him silly.  No, what I would have done is narrowed my eyes, and said, "I beg your pardon?"  I'm sorry, but that isn't sexy to me.  It doesn't bother some people. 

I think the fact that some women writers feel the need to push the envelope word and action wise is a kind of reverse feminism.  It's like saying, "See how gross I can be?  See?  See?  It's not just a man's world anymore."  Well, let me tell ya, sistahs, I've been in those seedy little shops with the yellow lighting and I've stood there in front of the racks of XXX paperbacks with their lurid covers and their godawful titles.  I've even bought a few of them.  But I won't write them. 

Back to the point:  Who you are as a human being is who you are as a writer.  A writer acquaintance of mine was known for her Americana books, sweet characters and lovely plots.  She underwent a few years of personal trauma.  Her career changed and she writes women's fiction now.  Am I surprised?  Not a bit.  Her fans want her to write Americana again, never understanding that she isn't that person anymore. 

Same thing with me.  I could never write Tapestry again - by the grace of God I'll never been that traumatized again.  But as my personality changes, is shaped by life, I'll write deeper and differently. 

I've taken a long time to get to my theory, and I'm not sure I've proven it.  But it goes something like this:  An author's character is the strongest component of any book.

I don't accept the idea that an author can write what she'd doesn't accept.  "I wrote The Bombing of the Bassinet but I'm nowhere near as violent in real life."  How does she think the book was written?  Channeling?  Or she put her forehead to the monitor and it just flowed into the computer?  Sorry, not buying it.  Or the author of The Erotic Adventures of Miss Fanny Fancypants is a staid, retiring, grandmotherly type?  Not in her deepest thoughts, she isn't. 

I've sometimes finished a book and wondered whether or not I would like the author.  Something tells me I wouldn't sometimes.  Yet there are more occasions when I close the covers of a book and wish I knew the person who wrote it.  Not the public person, who may well be introverted, agoraphobic, and devoid of hygiene, but the real person, down deep at the author level. 

My theory may be wrong.  Everything I think or feel is subject to change.  It's not being a writer.  It's being human.   

[28 july 2005] 6:06 pm - bear with me part II

I know I promised the second part of my theory, but I can't tell a lie.  I'm exhausted from doing everything I wanted to do today (yeah, me) plus I didn't sleep more than 15 minutes last night.  Remind me to tell you about Dracula Dog one day. 

Tomorrow, Friday, I promise to be pithy.  Here are the topics to come: 

Acceptable character traits

Acceptable character actions

When is too much simply too much? (Or what is my line in the sand?)

[27 july 2005] 6:51 pm - bear with me

I have this personal theory that I've never articulated before, so it might take a few days to do it.  We'll take it in stages, but I'm going to try to convince you of something.  I know, I know, how convincing can I be if I warn you up front?  I've had this theory for awhile, and I haven't the slightest idea if I'm right, but the more I read, the more I "listen" on the internet, the more certain I am that I may be on to something. 

I may not be able to explain this well, but here goes:

An author's voice comes through any book.  Sometimes you're aware of it.  Sometimes you're not. Sometimes it's subtle, like using the third person omniscient point of view.  Sometimes it's glaring, like the first person point of view and you suspect you're seeing through the author's eyes rather than the character's. 

Characters are also part of the author's voice.  How a character interacts, feels, behaves is an integral part of the author's voice, I think.  This point is probably controversial.  A writer will probably maintain that he or she can write about a serial killer with impunity, but was never a serial killer.  I maintain that the way the serial killer is portrayed is part of the author's mental and emotional makeup.  We all do things differently.  I may put plaid pants on a serial killer, while a fellow author may make him obsessive about wearing only blue shirts.  Why?  Did I watch something in my youth that affected me?  Did he?  Why does he wear glasses?  Why a moustache?  All these choices that we make about characters, protagonists and antagonists alike, are based on unconscious stimuli.  In other words, they're part of the author. 

Part Two tomorrow. 

[26 july 2005] 6:00 pm - stuff

Okay, it's official.  I really am a wuss.  I could no more go up into the space shuttle than I could turn purple and grow a horn in my head (Flying Purple People Eater, anyone?).  Jeepers, I admire their courage, don't you? 

Ever feel like you're a 33-1/3 record in a CD world?  Like you're spinning just a bit slow?  Not that there's anything wrong with my processing speed, but I do feel slightly left of normal.  I don't, for the most part, like any of the new movies.  I don't even like going to the movies.  My idea of fun is living room, big TV, feet up, popcorn,  And TV?  Ewww, for the most part. Some shows are fun:  I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I like The Apprentice.  I'm even more embarrassed to admit that I'm planning on watching at least one episode of the Martha Stewart show.  But I think the reason why I'm watching isn't very admirable.  I occasionally like snark.  I want the prissy Harvard grad to get hers.  Isn't that awful?  But most of the other realism shows bore me silly.  Don't care. 

I love the series Empire, and now I want to do more Roman history research to see if they're true to history.  I think so, but that may be a bad memory. 

Like House, but not more than one show at a time.  I have Tivo, so I did a terrible thing and Tivo'd about 4 shows and watched them back to back.  At the end, I wanted to bitch slap House and tell him to get over himself.  Not exactly the producer's intent. 

I adore British mysteries, and there's one I really like called Murder in Suburbia.  Plus, of course, Poirot.  David Suchet is the best Poirot ever.   (A little valley girl there.)

But I'm disheartened by shows like Cops and Cold Case.  I know the world is sometimes ghastly, and people can be lowlifes without any class, but I don't want to reinforce that knowledge all the time. 

[25 july 2005] 6:58 pm - me and nothing but me

I've had an absolutely wonderful birthday.  Trust me, any day you wake up is pretty damn good.  You already have a lot of people beat. 

My dad died at an early age, and so did my brother.  I've already outlived both of them.  Birthdays tend to make me reflective, not about age as much as my place in the world.   

A friend of mine brought me roses and a huge balloon that sings Happy Birthday to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus.  (At the end of the day I slaughtered it with a cake knife.)  I made out like a bandit, present wise.  I feel blessed, not by the gifts, but by the friends. 

I have the greatest son in the world.  Occasionally, I am reminded of the son I lost, and when that memory stings, as it always does, I'm doubly grateful for John.  What a charming, kind, and wonderful man he is. 

I'm also truly thankful that I am allowed to write every day, that people pay me for it, that people want to read it, that readers write me, that I can, in some small way, add something to the lives I'm fortunate enough to touch.

To all of you - thank you.     

[24 july 2005] 1:55 pm - the care and feeding of writers

Should writers/authors respond on reader message boards? 

My opinion?  Nope.  Not at all.  Never.  Are they nuts? 

Okay, that was the short answer.  The long answer:  writers look stupid trying to convince readers why they're wrong, misinformed, or didn't "get it".  The time to do that is when you're writing the book.   

You'll note that the biggies absolutely never post on a message board.  When was the last time you ever saw a message from Iris Johansen?  Mary Balogh?  The list goes on and on. 

What's even worse is a writer who doesn't shut up but chooses to argue the point over and over and over. 

I think it's a test.  The more inexperienced you are as a writer, the more you tend to post. 

[23 july 2005] 11:51 am - I love books

I love books.  I love everything about them.  The heft in my hand, the anticipation and the eagerness I feel when I open the cover.  I love hardbacks the most, and if I could that's all I'd buy, but most of my favorite authors write in paperback only.  Thank heavens for my budget. 

A couple of months ago I finished a book called Pompeii by Robert Harris.  What a fascinating book.  It's the story of a man who is a hydrologist, whose occupation is to make certain the viaducts are running correctly.  Harris's explanation and descriptions are so vivid that I'm there, fascinated, and at times repelled by the portrayal of Roman society.  Don't eat when you read the description of one of the banquets and the food being served.  In fact, you might not eat for days.  Maybe I can recommend the book as a diet aid.  But otherwise it's fantastic, a glimpse into another world that's as powerful as stepping into a time machine. 

I love mysteries, and I've found a fun series:  The Blackbird Sisters by Nancy Martin.  Love the author's voice, and the characters are wonderful.  

Of course there's the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich.  Note to JE:  I love the series, and truly like Stephanie, but I'm really annoyed about how a book just stops.  I need more of an ending.

Harriet Klausner calls the Dead End Job series by Elaine Viets a Chick-Lit Mystery.  Hmm.  I think I like the series sometimes, and then I don't.  I do know that I have questions about the heroine's reason for being in south Florida.  However, the author is absolutely right-on in describing some of these jobs.  She's such a good writer that the characters are alive to me. 

Another of my favorite mystery series (and unanimously adored by my friends) is the Passport to Peril mysteries by Maddy Hunter.  The titles:  Alpine for You, Top o' the Mourning, Pasta Imperfect, Hula Done It.  (Note:  I haven't read any of her books yet, but I'll bet that Marianne Stillings has the same wonderful sense of humor in her work.  I love the titles of her books:  Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evie, for example.  Note to self:  buy the book!) 

Other books I've read recently?  Inherit the Alamo:  Myth and Ritual at an American Shrine (just for my own edification), Successful Television Writing (research), My Gun Has Bullets by Lee Goldberg (too funny), Forensics for Dummies (research), Criminal Law, Tradition and Legal Order : Crime and the Genius of Scots Law (research), The FBI: Inside the World's Most Powerful Law Enforcement Agency (research), The FBI : A Comprehensive Reference Guide (research)

[22 july 2005] 5:41 am - internet questions

I've been wondering about two things:

1.  Do internet sites that cater to romance readers really have any clout?  Or do only a small portion of readers surf the internet?

2.  Can a web site harm an author or would-be author?  (Please note, I will NOT use that gag-awful expression Pre-Published.  Please, how arrogant.)

My opinion?  I think that more and more readers are beginning to surf the internet, and that the number is changing all the time.  I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess as to percentages, but I think that most readers still don't have an online presence.  As to online sites, I don't think they have any clout at all.  I think they want it, and I think they believe they should have it, AND I think they're a little miffed at the idea that they aren't the 5000 pound elephant in the room.  But I don't think anyone in the industry listens to them. 

In other words, would an online boycott or email campaign or great reviews or horrible reviews actually affect the sales of a book?  Not really.   

As to the second question, I think if an author is controversial in certain ways, he or she could be harmed, because editors do look at web sites.  Case in point:  I once read an author's blog and she just couldn't stop complaining about her current publisher.  Really nasty comments, too.  I wasn't really surprised when she wasn't offered a new contract. 

The would-be author (mentioned under 17 July) could be hurting herself as well.  Editors don't want problem authors, and someone who trashes another author is a problem. 

Just a note:  What I say on the internet I say under my own name.  That wasn't always the case.  But I've come to learn that if I can't put my name to it, I shouldn't be saying it. 

[21 july 2005] 12:04 pm - back to work

The car is back, and I don't care what they said - the A/C works and the locks are only mildly temperamental.  The poltergeist has moved off in search of a Lexus.  I hope. 

Son is well, seems mucho relieved not to have to endure more of mother's Florence Nightingale routine.  Does NOT want home visitation.   

I'm working on two new projects, and the clock is ticking.  But before I go back to work, I've got a comment to make (so what's new?). 

I just finished reading an interview with a bunch of previously published authors.  Most of them would readily be known to the romance reading public.  In this interview, however, the journalist seemed more concerned than any of them that they didn't currently have a publisher.  Comments like "lost trust in that publisher, shopping for a publisher, I write what I want" didn't exactly resonate with me. 

Walter Zacharias of Kensington Publishing used to say that an author was only as good as her last book.  In so many ways I agree with him.  Resting on your laurels is all well and good but it doesn't reflect the realism of today's publishing world.  In this interview I perceived an attitude by all of them, and I can't help but wonder if that same "attitude" is being communicated to any interested publisher.  I really lose patience with prima donnas. 

[20 july 2005] 7:07 pm - wth?

Amazon's sales rankings drive me nuts.  For the last six months they've been calculated differently.  For example, I'm in 100,000 territory with a few books when I've never before been there.  A quick peek at my fellow authors indicates that the same thing is happening to them.  I have no idea how to figure out the new computation, but I've got to wean myself from checking the numbers periodically.

Haunted car is still at the dealer.  I called the head exorcist and asked him for a second opinion.  Please, humor the lady who insists she's not going nuts.  Trust me, wouldn't I know if an air conditioner is working in 103 degree weather?  Or do they think I like hanging my head out the window, ears flapping in the breeze, like an ecstatic Labrador?  

That is not a very pretty image to keep in my mind.  My ears don't flap.  Maybe other parts of my anatomy do, but not my ears. 

By the way, took a long, drugging nap, and now ready to work.  Fingers poised over the keyboard. 

Lady, start your engine.

[20 july 2005] 9:05 am - yawn

At 3:00 AM, my darling son got up out of his sick bed, announced that he couldn't sleep and wanted to go home.  He'd been getting pain pills all day and didn't look the worse for wear.  But this was ridiculous.

"Go back to bed." 

"Really, Mom, I want to go home.  Thanks for everything." 

I turn around and he's dressed, with his favorite pillow under his arm and a very determined look on his face. 

"I love you.  I'll call you later." 

I have figured it out.  He has the pain tolerance of an ox.  Or he doesn't feel pain.  If I'd undergone what he had, I'd be three sheets to the wind.  I talked to him this morning, and he feels great.  He's going to go to the doctor in an hour for a post-op appointment.  Then, he offered to drive me to get my car. 

I look like hell.  I've slept a total of two hours, and I'm exhausted.  What's with that? 

[19 july 2005] 6:05 pm - all is well

My son is out of surgery.  They made me sit in recovery with him and I never, ever, ever want to do that again as long as I live.  He'd hyperventilate and I'd have to calm him down.  Breathe, sweetie, nice deep breaths.  I'm here.  It's okay.  Dear God in heaven. 

He's home, at my house, in my bed, as I desperately try to remember my candy striper days.  Shoot, all I can remember is how to make a paper bag out of a newspaper. 

I'm exhausted.  And sick to my stomach.  I still feel weak. 

It's official.  I'm a wuss.

Oh, and they called an hour ago.  Couldn't find anything wrong with the locks or the air conditioner.  It's official.  I'm a wuss who's driving a haunted car. 

[19 july 2005] 1:00 am - foot in mouth

There is every possibility in the world that I will indulge in a terminal case of Foot In Mouth Disease by writing so often.  Despite the fact that some professionals in my writing career have advocated that I "increase my web presence" it may not be a good idea. 

Here's why.  I am a woman of strong opinions.  I normally keep them bottled up with industrial strength corks. Writing so often is bound to loosen the corks.   

Case in point:  I'm about to write on a topic about which I'm completely and totally clueless.  But for some unknown reason I feel compelled.  

I have never been to an RWA Convention.  Frankly, I don't ever want to go.  Writing, to me, is not a hobby or a giggle-fest.  I was never pre-published or a Pro.  I'm a professional writer.   I'm deadly serious about it, maniacally so.  I also believe that writing, for the most part, can't truly be taught.  Technique can.  But the seminars given by so many authors seem to be comprised of personal experience more than technique.  Granted, that's only an opinion gathered from listening to a few tapes.  Being an author doesn't make you an expert on anything, even being an author.  But so many people think that writing a book entitles you to be listened to by other people who haven't yet "gotten the call". 

If I'm not going for the seminars, why would I go? 

Probably to meet with my agent.  Meet with my editor.  Valid reasons.  Meet with other authors.  Less valid for me.  I'm a traditional, dyed-in-the-wool loner.  Groups of women give me hives. 

Which brings me to the main reason why I never want to go to an RWA Convention.  9000 people belong to RWA.  Only about 1500 of them are published. In the back of my mind is this insidious idea. Do published authors go to RWA to be admired?  To be oohed and aahed over?  To be whispered about?  "Look, there's so and so." 

I'm on several email loops.  All these women - these writers - want to talk about is what they're going to wear at RWA.  I'm screwed.  I don't give a flying fig about shoes.  If they're comfy and fit, that's all that matters.  They can be size 7 or size 13, I don't care. I don't care what brand they are and I've never thought shoes were sexy.  They go on your feet for God's sake.  (You know what a FM pump is, right?  It's a stiletto designed by a misogynist who just happens to have a brother-in-law who's a chiropractor and needs the business.  It also stands for F_ _ k Me and doesn't refer to the act of procreation.  No, the FM part of the equation is ten years later when you have bunions so bad you can't walk at all without limping.  Yep, you're f_ _ ked, all right.)  I don't discuss makeup with anyone.  It bores me.  (But I use Bare Escentuals and love it :>) I feel about clothing the same way I do toilet paper.  You have to use it, but why talk about it?  That said, I love clothes from several designers, adore perfume, good jewelry (love emeralds) and like to really dress up occasionally.  I just don't feel like discussing it with other people.  Is it a herd thing?  Am I not being a good herd female?   

I once asked an industry professional what was the biggest advantage to attending RWA.  I trusted this individual, who had been around long enough to know the ins and outs, to give me great advice.  "Gossip," she said.  "You get great gossip."

I've been a RITA finalist.  I have the little pin.  I've published 18-19 books.  I SO do not care about gossip, industry news, or being admired.  A reader picking up one of my books is admiration enough for me, thanks. 

Like I said, groups of women give me hives.  Can you imagine what 2000 of them in one hotel would do?  Shudder. 

However, since I've never been to RWA, I could be wrong.   

[18 july 2005] 3:00 pm - more profundities

Not profound thoughts as much as just strange.  My car was towed off a few minutes ago on the flat bed of one of these huge wreckers. 

Remember the movie Christine?  Well the bloody car is doing weird stuff, like locking me inside.  The door locks wouldn't work.  Then the air conditioning didn't work.  Then did.  Finally, I lost my patience and sent it off for an exorcism.  It's under warranty, so why not? 

The funny part was when the wrecker turned the corner and my car was no longer in sight.  I got this pang like it was a sentient being and I'd just sent it off to college.  Or he was a toddler and going off with his grandmother for his first overnight.  Hello?  I get the same weird feeling when I leave the dog at the vet.  (See obligatory picture of dog.)

I get this really sappy feeling deep inside, as if I'm trying not to cry.  I'm beginning to wonder if I'm just really emotional or this is simply responsibility coupled with heartburn. 

Beats the heck out of me. 

[18 july 2005] 8:00 AM - I know, I know

Okay, I'm already blowing it.  Twice in a row.  But I'm on vacation this week and have the time and loads and loads to say.

My son is having surgery tomorrow.  A friend of mine called to tell me her father finally succumbed to cancer.  I received a post card from a dear friend from London. 

Remember the adage that people - friends and family - are more important than anything you own or do?  I'm so blessed in that I have wonderful friends and a fantastic son.  I also have the ability to bury all of my worries and concerns in writing fiction. 

Fiction allows me to stop time, a force that relentlessly marches onward.  Time makes old men of young boys and crones of beauty queens.  In the pages of a book, however, no one ever gets old, dies, or gets blown to bits. (Unless I want them to.)   I like fiction.  I crave the absorption of being able to write.  I mourn for those hours when I'm pulled out of my world building. 

Reality unfortunately intrudes occasionally.   

Yet as much as I want to put my hand up to stop circumstances from happening, as if I am omnisciently in charge of the celestial stopwatch, I recognize that the passages in life, the goodbyes and the tragedies, are part of the whole experience.  Without death there is no delight in life.  Without sadness there is no true joy. 

I'm worried about my son, and part of me wonders what would happen if the surgery didn't go routinely.  The other part - more sane and rational - knows that everything will be fine.  Tomorrow he'll wake up and be grumpy, and I'll feel this immense surge of relief that I probably wouldn't feel without the fear.     

More stuff:

I've overheard some readers complaining about the sameness of Janet Evanovich's books.  Let me say something up front - truth in advertising - she's a comfort read for me.  What's wrong with a comfort read?  I eat popcorn because:  I know what it's going to taste like (no exotic sauces or barely cooked duck) and I like the taste. I adore Stephanie Plum.  I know her well. She's become, well, familiar.  What's wrong with that?  Isn't that why there's such a following for the Harry Potter books?  Don't we know Harry?  And want to know more about him? 

To me, that's a pretty good feat for a writer to pull off.  Oh, and those other people?  They can go to a French restaurant.  Me?  I'll take popcorn.  

[17 july 2005] countdown

I actually made myself a year older.  Here I am, almost on the eve of my birthday (July 25).  I was thinking I was actually a year older than I am.  Is that idiotic, or what?  I need all the days, weeks, and months I can get.  Maybe my mistake was due to the fact that I really don't give a you-know-what about things like age.  Or race, creed, religion, sex.  I do tend to judge people on whether or not they're literate, whether or not they're kind, or if they have any class.  There.  A confession.  One of many to come, I'm sure.  Class is defined as an indeterminate something. It has nothing to do with money or birth and everything to do with attitude. 

I can't always tell when someone has class, but I can immediately tell when they don't. 

Next point:  The other day I happened to read a review of one of my books on a Blog.  Now, scathing reviews are nothing new.  Here's what I think.  You plunk down your hard earned money for my books expecting something in return.  If you don't get it, you have every right in the world to complain.  However, most readers don't realize they bring at least half of the reading equation.  Bad mood?  Fight with your significant other?  Getting hassled at work?  Those things have some bearing on the experience.  The woman who reviewed my book did so with some of the most vile and vicious comments I've ever read.  I don't contest her right to have or voice her opinion. 

Here's what threw me for a loop.  Blogwoman is a would-be writer.  I wasn't the only writer to be excoriated.  Her comments about some other writers were:  untalented, passionless, boring, must have slept with the publisher.  

Is she nuts? 

Three very important lessons: 

1.  What goes around comes around.  2.  Words mean things.  3.  People remember rudeness.