In which I try not to whine

This post first saw the light of day at the old Blog A Go-Go on January 2, 2008. And, hey, guess what, you guys? I'm at BookExpo.



More than one person has mentioned to me recently that they read my blog because I don't complain. (I tried once. I wrote a scathing, shimmering, incandescently enraged blog entry last month when I was so angry I wanted to kick a few people with pointy shoes until the streets ran red with their hearts' blood. But I got over it and it just seemed silly to leave the entry in the publishing queue when I was no longer wanting to torch their houses, bulldoze the remains, and salt the earth so nothing would ever grow there again. I jest!)

Anyway, in light of those observations about the character of my blog, I started thinking about the mood of this place and how closely it reflects what's really going on in my head. I decided this blog is completely me, but me at about 80%. (I censor. A LOT.) But--without compromising the privacy of people who didn't ask to have their personal lives hung out on the washing line of the internet--it is as authentic as I can make it. I really do muse about the things I write here, and I enjoy writing things that I think YOU will enjoy.

But more than that, I am acutely aware of the power of gratitude. (Warning: New Age feeling-type sentiments ahead.) I always believed I would be a published writer. Even as a child, I would practice my autograph or being interviewed by Barbara Walters because I knew those skills would come in handy one day. What I didn't expect is that it would take me almost until the age of forty to get published. I was twenty-three when I wrote my first novel, and it was fourteen years until I got a book deal. Fourteen years of rejection letters and writing novels that nobody wanted. My confidence and my faith in myself as a writer were beaten so thin moths could have used them for wings. It was, simply put and without melodrama, a dark time.

It hurts to think about it now, so I try not to. But when I do, I am knocked to my knees by gratitude for what I have. My reality now is that every day I can walk into a bookstore and see my work, printed and bound and for sale, ready to go home with someone and hopefully give them a pleasurable escape from their workaday life. My reality now is that I get on airplanes and travel to wonderful places to meet people who believe in what I do and want to help make me successful. And my reality now is that every single morning, I turn on my computer and there is e-mail waiting for me from readers who say things like, I hope your well is ever plentiful and you always find joy in your words.

So that's why I don't complain here. This is the place where readers come to meet the real me, and what you find here IS the real me. But it's the best me. I put on a pretty party dress and my dancing shoes because I know you're coming and I'm happy to see you here. So thanks for coming, and thanks for appreciating what I do. Because without you, I am a girl with eight lonely little novels in a box under her bed, and I never forget that.

In which we talk neighbors

This entry was originally posted to the Blog A Go-Go on January 8, 2008. Hey, did I mention I'm at BookExpo right now? Because I totally am.



Neighbors make me nervous. We've had some lovely ones over the years and some not-so-lovely ones. Our current neighbors are delightful. We never hear from them, and even though I am highly suspicious about the new compost bed (come ON, that thing is 30x40 feet and bordered by 6-foot tall stockade fencing--it is not so much a compost heap as a BODY FARM), they are quiet and that is the most important quality in a neighbor.

Well, quiet and not creepy. The two can often go hand-in-hand, as I discovered in Texas. We lived across the street from a very sweet churchgoing couple. They were devoted to each other and their four children. They were quiet and thoughtful; the husband mowed the yards of elderly neighbors and the wife took them home-baked treats and pictures colored by the children. It seemed like they were too good to be true, and it turns out, they were.

After a few years of quiet domesticity, the wife disappeared, and the husband and children seemed unkempt and disheveled. It transpired that the wife had left the family for good to live with another man. Her pusher to be precise. Naturally, neighborhood sympathy fell heavily on the husband, but these things so often have two sides, don't they?

On the day the wife had told her husband she would be coming around to collect some of her things, he got the children ready for school and put them on the bus. Then he sorted his wife's clothes into garbage bags and stacked them neatly in front of the garage to await her. Above them, right on the garage door, he hung her wedding gown, a pristine white dress with an overlay of lace and an ENORMOUS SCARLET LETTER on the bodice. I'm not kidding. He had cut a letter "A" out of red felt and stitched it (alright, maybe he used Aleen's craft glue) to the front of the dress.

It hung there all morning, swaying gently in the breeze. I know because I watched it. I kept thinking about him, sitting up at night, crafting his revenge--literally--and I was deeply horrified. (And wildly interested too, if I'm honest. It was the most riveting thing to happen in our neighborhood since an adulterous couple chose to park in the cul-de-sac around the corner for their noontime trysts. The mailman surprised them one day. Or they surprised him, I've forgotten now.)

Anyway, by the time the children came home, the gown was gone and the bags collected. I never saw who came and got them, or what the reaction was to the ruined dress. Only the wire hanger was left, twisted and limp as if someone had jerked the gown off of it in a hurry. The husband and children moved away shortly after and never heard of them again. Everyone blamed the wife for abandoning her family, but sometimes I wonder. A man who is capable of hanging out your wedding gown with a blood-red mark for the whole world to see might not have been the easiest sort to live with in the first place.

I'm just glad he didn't keep a Body Farm.

In which Scarlett O'Hara was a freaking genius

I am at BookExpo, but because I suffer from blogger-guilt I'm posting this entry from the Blog A Go-Go. It was originally posted on January 12, 2008.



Last Thursday, otherwise known in my house as the Day of Relentless Unpleasantness, was not a good day. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that by late Thursday afternoon all I wanted to do was put my head through a plate glass window. (You know in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" when Holly Golightly talks about the mean reds? My mean reds could kick her mean reds in the throat and not even spoil their pedicure. It was a VERY BAD DAY.)

Anyway, as much as I wanted to vent my many frustrations, I couldn't. I had my Second Life PR event to do, and I had to put on my big girl panties and DEAL. (I should mention that my excessively sweet and pretty-sure-she-ought-to-be-sainted mother let me rant at her for quite awhile. Then she tag-teamed with my husband and HE listened and brought me tea and offered cocktails. These people GET ME.)

So at some point, I had to put myself together and do my job, much as I wanted to crawl under the duvet and hide out until Groundhog Day. When I was trying to figure out how best to do that, I thought of Scarlett O'Hara and the line, "I'll think about that tomorrow." Fine, I decided. I will shelve the many unpleasantnesses and I will think about them Friday.

But THEN, I remembered her other favorite line. (No, not "Fiddledeedee", which always sounded completely ridiculous coming from Scarlett. As my husband remarked, it was a lot likelier that she would have at LEAST said, "Up yours, Rhett.") It was the immortal line, "Tomorrow is another day."

Ponder the implications for just a moment. On the one hand she's saying, Oooooh, we won't think about nasty things until tomorrow. And on the other, she's deciding that tomorrow is a fresh start and we won't think about anything bad then either. SO SHE NEVER THINKS ABOUT ANYTHING BAD EVER. It's genius, and I have decided to adopt it as my life philosophy immediately. I mean, yes, she ran through husbands like pantyhose and lost several fortunes and MAY have resorted to killing Yankees and eating dirt, but that seems like a small price to pay to avoid worry lines and insomnia, don't you think? Fiddledeedee.

In which I am packing

Today is all about getting ready for BookExpo--or it would be if I wasn't desperately trying to get TDTF packaged up to mail off before I leave! I have to finish the dedication and acknowledgments, and then I can scamper over to the trusty folks at the UPS store to pack it up for me and send it off. Then I can leave for New York with a clear conscience!

I am VERY much looking forward to the trip, and not just because it means a decent couple of nights' sleep without the pup, I promise. Friday is the ABA luncheon to which I was thrilled to receive an invitation. (Meg Cabot and Neil Gaiman will also be there. That would be blatant name-dropping, but since I don't know them, it's more like fangirl squeeing.) Anyway, once the luncheon is finished, I will be signing in the ABA Lounge, then it's off to the Met with my agent for some quick research into the next Julia Grey book and a bite of dinner. Then my publisher is hosting a bash at an art gallery in SoHo, so I get to have a fabulous evening with some of my favorite folks. The next morning it's back to BookExpo for two signings and lunch with my agent. (I adore my agent, so spending time with her is always a treat.) And then dinner at the Ritz with my editor--another lovely person who treats me like minor European royalty. All of that before flying back home eeeeeearly Sunday to spend the rest of the weekend enjoying my family.

I'm actually exhausted just thinking about it, but I plan to have a ball. I get the chills every time I go to the Met, so I am beyond happy that we have a few hours to poke around there. I always feel restored after absorbing so much genius in one place, don't you? Anyway, I've loaded my iphone with a few podcasts and Italian lessons, lots of great music, and some Miss Marple from PBS. I have two new books--a Georgette Heyer mystery from the 30s and a lush nonfic about perfume and a woman's quest to travel the world to plumb the mysteries of fragrance and create her own signature scent. (It was either that or a gorgeous new bio of Mata Hari I just found. I'm feeling frivolous this weekend.) I plan to enjoy every minute of my trip!

Hope y'all have a gorgeous weekend--I'll be posting entries from the Blog A Go-Go while I'm away. If you are going to be at BookExpo, please let me know you're a blog reader so I can make a big fuss over you!

In which we ponder simplicity

When I'm sitting with my feet up and sipping a cup of something yummy, one of the blogs I like to peruse is A Bloomsbury Life. This post is particularly thought-provoking, raising questions about extravagance and immediate gratification vs. simplicity and appreciation through the medium of pictures. I loved it--and it's a very welcome reminder that more stuff, bigger stuff, shinier stuff, is not the key to happiness. Right now I'm trying to live in the moment, grounding myself--not an easy thing for me, but with a puppy in the house, sometimes the most absurdly small things can be deeply pleasurable (a full night's sleep for one, a fuzzy hug for another). What about you? What small happinesses add up to something good for you?

In which love is like a warm puppy

I promise not to go too mad with the puppy pictures, but occasionally, a dose of something warm and fuzzy is just good for you.

In which I finally got to the movies!

I cannot tell you the last movie I saw in the theater. No, really. It seems that two or three times a year a flurry of movies I want to see will come out all at once, and I don't manage to see any of them until they show up on Encore in a year or two. Le sigh. And movie-going itself has become an extremely questionable pleasure given the proliferation of cell phones and PDAs and the people who wield them. Honestly, unless you're a transplant surgeon and there's a kidney in a cooler somewhere waiting for you, TURN IT OFF. You're not that important. At the risk of sounding cranky, I also long-ago gave up the idea of seeing a movie on a weekend night. The last time I had an encounter with "tweens" was during "Casino Royale" when I tore a strip off the girl sitting next to me for talking INCESSANTLY when Judi Dench was whupping up on Daniel Craig. People, you cannot mess with Bond.

Anyway, it had been AGES since the husband and I managed a date, so we took ourselves off to a movie at ten a.m. Monday. You probably think that's a typo, but seriously. Ten in the morning. It was GLORIOUS. There were about four other couples than us--all middle-aged, which was perfect. Middle-aged couples are the best movie-goers because they actually watch the movie. Very young couples are too busy slurping on each other, and very old couples are always asking each other what just happened. LOUDLY.

So we went to the first showing of "Angels & Demons", and I found myself scratching my head. A LOT. Most of the changes were vast improvements over the book--eliminating Langdon's presence in the helicopter was a moral necessity because between you and me, it was ABSURD. But some of the changes seemed to be for the sake of change, and I would dearly love to know why. (And one--the camerlengo's virtually non-existent motive in the film--was inexplicable.) One of the biggest criticisms of "The Da Vinci Code" was how much people just stood around and talked, and there's less of it here, but that also means there's less discussion of art and symbolism--my favorite parts of the books, although I dearly loved seeing a dramatization of conclave, however imperfect. I am a bit of a Vatican geek when it comes to conclave. I watched CNN round the clock during the last papal election. Waiting for a puff of smoke doesn't sound that interesting, but I find it RIVETING. (I called it wrong, though. I thought Cardinal Lustiger of France would be elected. Ah, well.) In all, it was very lovely just to be away with the husband for a few hours with a passably good movie and some VERY good popcorn. This should hold me over until the Dillinger film with Johnny Depp...

In which we have Shoe Lust

Because sometimes it really is all about the shoes.

In which we play games

This is evil. Don't say I didn't warn you.

In which I was feeling philosophical-like

This entry was originally posted on the Blog A Go-Go on January 25, 2008.

A day is not a long time. And yet it can change everything. Things that were going horribly awry can correct themselves, gently, without interference. Imminent disaster can be averted. Ships can be steered away from the rocks, and what seemed certain is suddenly a momentary shudder, a goose walking over your grave and then toddling happily away again. And one by one, each of the things that seemed to be hurtling out of your grasp, come quietly back, waiting patiently for you to notice how well-behaved they've become. If you move too quickly, you might startle them. So you breathe softly and make no hurried movements. Instead you relax, and give a little sigh of relief and recognition that whatever storm clouds gather blackly on the horizon, it only takes one great gust of fresh air to blow them to tatters. Nothing is as bad as you feared, and everything is better than you believed. It is a very good day.

In which you must have seen this

as it was featured on the Today Show, but just in case you were busy doing something terribly important, please do not miss Awkward Family Photos. I would describe it, but really, there are no words.

In my little corner of the world, all is very well. My editor sent along the line edits for The Dead Travel Fast, and the changes are microscopic. I shall be able to take care of all of them this weekend and get the manuscript shipped safely back to the Great White North before BookExpo. (Which is NEXT WEEK. Squeee!) Also, I saw the cover for TDTF yesterday, and it is FABULOUS--lush and mysterious and if I saw it on a newsstand, I would snaffle it up in a heartbeat.

The pups are doing very well, plump and mischievous. We've taken them for rides in the car every day and they are superb little travelers. I hate that we can't let them go in public because of the nastiness of parvo, but no way are we going to risk it.

A reminder--you have until the end of this month to enter the Kindle 2 contest. I cannot WAIT to give this sucker away!

In which we have almost no time

Oh, my dears, HOW did I forget how much work puppies are?!? The first night nearly killed us, but since then they've been sleeping through and doing very nicely. Still, watching their every furry move has kept me too busy to do much else, so I'm thrilled that the ever-fabulous Sal sent me a link to these REALLY condensed books. They are hilarious--and of course, my favorite is the collected works of Jane Austen...

In which you can almost smell the puppy breath

Chickens, this entry is just too cute, with plump puppy goodness baked right in. The chubby fellow on the right is Deacon, and the dainty little sweetheart on the left is his littermate, Sophie. (Sophie belongs to my parents but we plan to abscond with her on a regular basis.) Losing Emma the Yellow Wonder Dog was so difficult--not just because we missed her, but because having a dog makes us feel more of a family. So now we have double the doggie sweetness. Because of some fairly extensive allergy issues with Emma, we decided to go with a goldendoodle this time, half poodle, half golden retriever. We're hoping this will mean a lot less Claritin in the house...Sophie is very composed and poised, curious, and feminine while Deacon is the Matthew McConaughey of puppies--loves the sun, sleeps a lot, and always looks like he's blissing. We plan on buying him a teeny set of bongos.

Since puppies take up loads of time--and since I have to leave for BookExpo in a week and a half--posting for the rest of May will be a mixture of new entries and reposts from the old Blog A Go-Go, which is still getting so many hits I can't take it down yet! Glad folks are still poking around over there, and if you have a particular entry you'd like to see posted here so it doesn't get lost when I close the Blog A Go-Go, just holler. Have a gorgeous weekend!

In which we get foodie

Through the miracle of social networking (thanks, Twitter!) I found a reader who blogs under the name of Evil Shenanigans. You MUST love that. Anyway, it's a food blog kept by a part-time culinary student--and fellow Texan!--who is also mildly obsessed with Nigella. A very nice place to putter on a rainy spring day.

I'm poking around a lot of domestic blogs these days, and that begs the question, am I the only one who gets frighteningly domestic in spring? I don't know what it is about April that usually gets me doing things like digging out my madeleine pan or basting up a curtain to screen off a bookshelf. I don't think it's related to spring cleaning precisely because I don't seem to do anymore actual cleaning than usual, but I do feel alarmingly nesty, even to buying the odd piece of new furniture and a few new rugs. We finally ditched the armoire we'd been using as a TV cabinet for AGES and bought a very pretty and sleek media stand, and we rolled up the old needlepoint rugs in favor of some fresh new wool ones, and we swapped the oversize wooden coffee table for a wicker one we thrifted and painted glossy black. It all looks very nice, and there was a motivation behind it, which I'll share tomorrow...now isn't that mysterious?

In which some things are just too cool for words

Last year, during my event in Sebastopol, I met Maki, a lovely reader who had e-mailed me before the luncheon. I sat next to her at lunch and found her to be gracious and engaging company. (Meeting readers is one of the very best things about being an author, hands down.) Tuesday evening, I received an e-mail from her that literally left me with my mouth hanging open. In her capacity as a member of the Two Rock Media team, she and her company had created a book trailer for Silent on the Moor. Not only created a book trailer, created a WONDERFUL book trailer which they presented to me as a gift. (It was a test project for a new endeavor they are launching.) I would have been thrilled with the trailer if I had commissioned it, but to receive such a generous gift was simply beyond words. HUGE, tremendous, glittery bouquets of thanks to Maki and everyone else at Two Rock. It is my absolute pleasure to present the book trailer for Silent on the Moor. Enjoy!

In which people are getting on my last nerve

No, really. I was reading a blog a few days ago, and the author was forty kinds of annoyed at the way other folks behave on Twitter. Her point was that they just ought to go elsewhere if they weren't going to use Twitter the way she wanted. Well, if we extend the argument to its logical conclusion, shouldn't SHE go elsewhere if Twitter doesn't suit her needs? I mean, honestly. Sitting around and constantly griping about how other people do things doesn't make you clever or superior--it makes you a bore. She ought to give serious thought to founding her own nano-blogging site. She could call it Bitter, and she and all her friends could Bitter at each other all day. They could sell t-shirts on Cafe Press with slogans like, "I'm with Bitter", and "I spread my toast with Bitter butter". And then the rest of us could just get on with our lives. (Oh, and I am FULLY aware of the irony that I just spent a post complaining about someone else's whining. This is the danger inherent in the Circle of Snark.)

Since I've whinged for a paragraph, it is only fair that I tell you it's been a VERY good week indeed. My agent and editor both love the new book and the work I have left is the merest TWEAK. (I thought my editor was kidding when she said there was really nothing for her to do until she e-mailed her notes and I kept waiting for more pages to print out and they never came.) Anyway, TDTF is wrapped up to the point where I can finally release the breath I've been holding for 15 months! In other happy news, I plan on having an excellent time at BookExpo later this month, and this weekend, I will have some delightful tidings to share, so all is good in my world, kittens. And you?

In which I do love living in a small town

This past weekend was full of the quirks that make small towns fun. Well, not precisely fun--let's say interesting instead. Friday was a beautiful evening. The day had been warm with a lovely light breeze, and we decided to go out for ice cream. On our way home, we passed the main square where all things touristy, educational, and commercial meet in our college town. It's a spendy spot, with expensive restaurants, art galleries, jewelers, and a lingerie boutique where I occasionally buy things that are so costly I cut off the tags as soon as I get home so I won't be tempted to return them. It's a part of town where locals like to grab a gourmet sandwich and walk their dogs and tourists go to soak up the atmosphere. (It is a peculiar fact that there isn't a proper craft store in this town of 12,000 people, but this particular square has a Williams-Sonoma. I cannot buy craft glue, but I can purchase a cake pan in the shape of a beehive.)

Anyway, as we passed by on this peaceful, lovely spring evening, I noticed a disturbance. Three men were holding aloft banners and yelling at the folks on the restaurant patios to repent. (Why they assumed that people buying $25 crabcakes are in need of repenting is beyond me. I mean, how do we know those nice people weren't heading out to do some good works once they'd finished their Death by Chocolate?) One of the signs wanted to know if we were on the road to hell, another called us sinners, but my favorite was the one that insisted the following folks (and I copied them down so I wouldn't leave anybody out) were going straight to hell: lewd women, baby killers, potheads, sports nuts, rebellious women, homosexuals, Jesus mockers, and Mormons. Now, just between you and me, I can think of a few other groups that would rate a little higher on the hell-roster than some poor guy watching a little ESPN in his living room, but these people have their priorities clearly sorted in a way that makes perfect sense to them even if it leaves me mystified. But then I do love a good dose of eccentricity, so I say, bring on the brimstone and let me put my feet up and watch.

In which I am interviewed

Today is supposed to be a re-post of goodies from the Blog A Go-Go, but a new interview just went up over at Historical Novels. The questions were new to me, and if you click through to the review, you'll find some resources for the Gothic novel as well. Yay!

Also, there are just under three weeks left in the Kindle 2 contest. Be sure to enter while you still can. I cannot wait to give this Kindle away! (Please note, I am not administering the contest myself. Any queries regarding the contest, rules, etc. should be directed to Writerspace, as noted at the bottom of the contest page.) Good luck!

In which we muse in a very general and random fashion

1. My peonies are blooming. They smell divine, and I wish I could take credit for them, but the truth is, I ignore them entirely. I confess, I am afraid to touch them, and honestly a little neglect doesn't seem to do them any harm.

2. I think someone should cast a film with Helen Hunt, Leelee Sobieski, French Stewart, and Renee Zellweger as siblings.

3. I really, really think scientists should have named these Homo tolkiensus.

4. And for all of the readers out there who are mothers--most especially my own!--I wish you a blissful Mother's Day!

In which I'm not chic enough for either of these blogs

But a girl can dream. Everybody in the free world is already familiar with Scott Schuman's glorious fashion blog, the Sartorialist. (If it has somehow passed you by, the dapper Mr. Schuman--a renowned fashion photographer--posts photos he takes on the streets of some of the world's most elegant and fashion-forward cities.) I am enthralled by the photos, even if they do leave me feeling rather wilted. Honestly, people, there are toddlers on his blog who are better accessorized than I am. But I do love the inspiration and the vicarious globe-trotting. (He twitters too!)

And recently I found another blog with just as much effortless chic: the Catorialist. Of course.

On a thoroughly unrelated note, I was watching "Gosford Park" the other day--if you haven't seen it, RUN to Netflix and remedy the situation immediately--and it occurred to me that I don't have a quilted satin hot water bottle cover. And it made me feel sulky. I also don't have a bed jacket, a little lace cap to wear while my maid serves me breakfast in bed...or, for that matter, a maid. As my friend Suzanne would say, le sigh.

In which we get a metaphysical

I've hesitated to blog about this because it's one of those topics that is a wee bit "out there", but honestly, it's either this or ponder when Andrew Lloyd Webber started looking like the Cat in the Hat. (I'm not kidding. Watch the reruns of "Any Dream Will Do" on BBCAmerica and you will see it INSTANTLY. He even has this one expression that manages to be winsome and saucy at the same time, as if he's contemplating what mischief to get up to.) Anyway, the subject today is intentions. I know the road to hell is supposed to be paved with good ones, but the truth is, I've been working with intentions rather a lot in 2009 and for me they work.

It all started with a phone call I did NOT want to make as it had the potential to be quite nasty. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I got, so in an effort to curb the anxiety, I took action. I sat and wrote an intention of the BEST possible outcome for the phone call. I imagined every aspect of the call going not just well, but STUPENDOUSLY well. I lit a candle and read over the intention several times before the call, and to my astonishment, every single detail happened just the way I had imagined it. Now, understand that I wrote out a technically possible outcome, but one that was entirely unlikely--and I mean unlikely to the extent that I would have been less surprised to have been struck by lightning. This method was so successful that I've used it dozens of times since, scattering the house with little slips of paper--the detritus of my mental road maps.

The lesson I took from this is that when I'm undertaking something that puts me slightly off balance, I need a few minutes to restore my equilibrium. I need a concrete focus for my best outcome, and I need to be fully and completely present in the moment. I have a pretty agile case of "monkey mind", and writing out an intention forces me to be grounded and attending to what I am doing right then. It demands that I think out what I really want in a situation and question my motives as well as my goals. Intentions can be used for any aspect of your life where you want clarity, and I highly recommend them.

In which I am guest blogging

Today you'll find me over at TJ Bennett's blog, IMHO. The topic is Dark Knights in Shining Armor, which means I got to write about Nicholas Brisbane. As you can imagine, the entry wrote itself! (So much to say on the subject...and so much unsaid.) Anyway, pootle over there and check out TJ's other guest bloggers and interviews and be sure to have a look at her delicious contests. Big congratulations to TJ on the May release of her second novel, The Promise!

In which it was good to be the queen

I have a darling English friend named Sali whom I adore for many reasons. First, she has a collection of velvet coats so extensive that Elton John would be envious. Second, she named her rabbit Miss Diana Ross. Third, I am a history geek and she is MILES worse. She feeds my addiction by regularly alerting me to books I may have missed and lording it over me that her country is a few millenia older than mine. (It is extremely lowering to have to listen to her talk about poking around a derelict ruin of a Tudor mansion on a random Saturday just for fun.) Anyway, Sali sent me the link to the BBC news story about the restoration of the gardens at Kenilworth. Kenilworth Castle was once the property of Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, court favorite to Elizabeth I, and it was the setting of an extremely elaborate visit on the part of the queen to her beloved Robin. The pair met when they were imprisoned in the Tower of London as youngsters and it was often rumored they would marry. Repeatedly frustrated by the queen's reluctance to wed, Dudley instead married the queen's Boleyn cousin, Lettice Knollys. In a deliciously ironic twist, Lettice was the mother of the Earl of Essex, Elizabeth's last favorite whom she beheaded after he staged an ill-fated rebellion against his aging queen. But those sad days were far in the future when Robert Dudley entertained the queen at Kenilworth. He spent thousands of pounds on masques, pageants, and the gardens, said to be among the most beautiful in England at the time. The castle has long since fallen to ruin, but the gardens have now been restored in an attempt to recapture their Elizabethan splendor.

In which I apologize

I missed Saturday's entry because Blogger has decided to cordially hate me once a fortnight. For no good reason it will just stop publishing the FTP blogs, so whatever is in the queue will sit there until Blogger fixes it, usually at least a day. I was so frustrated with it this weekend, I simply refused to deal with it at all and instead applied myself to pancakes and reading--a much better use of my time, I think. Anyway, today I'm publishing an entry from the old Blog A Go-Go because it's a pretty accurate peek into what it's like when I'm interviewed.

This entry was originally published on the Blog A Go-Go on January 4, 2008.

This week I was interviewed by Ben Hunt, the keeper of the fabulous crime fiction blog, Material Witness, and as usual, I was very nearly hyperventilating by the time he called. I've been interviewed many times over the last year and it never ceases to induce panic. NEVER. It doesn't matter how good the questions are or how much the interviewer liked the book--it is like sitting for an oral exam. The worst part is the amnesia. The interviewer could ask my name and I would HAVE TO THINK ABOUT IT. I don't remember where I get my ideas; I have no recollection of how I developed my characters, and I really can't recall what made me want to be a writer. (And sometimes I have an out of body experience where I hear myself say things I am CERTAIN I did not mean to say. Like a few weeks ago when Rod Rice was interviewing me for KUHF's "Front Row" and he asked why my blog was so funny and engaging and I blurted out, "Vicodin." Totally not true, BTW. I meant to explain that I had been pretty guarded in my blogging until I was on Vicodin for three days in October and lost my filter a little when I was posting. Of course, at that point poor Rod had just about infarcted under the console, so I gave up.)

The WORST part is when they want to know what you're reading now. There is an unspoken expectation that writers will be erudite readers, choosing arcane and important prose from previously undiscovered writers and then sharing these gems with the public. Um, no. The truth is, I am cussing out Bram Stoker right now because I'm working my way through Dracula, something I would not be doing if it wasn't necessary, believe me. I am also dipping into The Meat Club Cookbook--for girls who love meat! and an astrology book on relationships. So when Ben wanted to know what ONE book I would recommend, I hastily scanned my bookshelves. And I ended up with To Kill a Mockingbird. Seriously. I flogged Mockingbird, a book that has sold eleventy jillion copies and something everyone in the free world has already read. Excellent. I couldn't have been more original if I'd picked the Bible.

That wasn't the highlight of the interview--no, that was when I gushed about Jane Austen. TO AN ENGLISHMAN. That's some serious groundbreaking right there. God, I hate myself. Which brings me to the inevitable aftereffects of an interview. They are like cocktail parties in that you gear yourself up to be witty and charming, you think you're having a wonderful chat with someone much more interesting and brighter than you are, then you go away and second-guess every last thing you said. The only difference is, after an interview IT LIVES FOREVER in print. (It suddenly occurs to me that interviews might be vastly easier if I combined them with the cocktail party motif and wore a pretty dress and sipped a Lemon Drop while I was answering questions instead of sitting in my red kimono trying to sip silently from the glass of water I KNOW is going to end up spilled all over my keyboard before I'm done.)

And people wonder why writers drink. HA! The most surprising aspect of the process is that I actually ENJOY it. I love giving interviews. I love discussing the process and thinking on my feet. I love the feeling of teetering on the abyss between being engaging and informative and being the biggest moron in the free world. It's like skydiving, but without the annoying nylon clothes and possibility of actual death.

Now that I'm done loathing myself, you ought to know that Ben asks excellent questions, is a thoughtful listener, and a brilliant writer himself. Go to his blog and find something wonderful to read. God knows I will. Maybe then when the NEXT interviewer asks me what I'm reading I'll have an answer.

Edited to add: This blog entry prompted a reply from Ben on his blog that made me feel infinitely better. And for the record, he asked me some of the most interesting and thought-provoking questions I've ever been asked. I don't remember them, of course--the amnesia referred to above also works retroactively--but I do recall being highly impressed at the time. (And he was nice enough not to notice when I dropped my BlackBerry on the floor and said something very impolite.)

In which I am smitten with Grey Gardens

Ever since I first saw the documentary, I have been fascinated by the Beales--the mother/daughter duo who were related to Jackie Kennedy and lived in absolute squalor in their mansion, Grey Gardens. (I don't believe in regret, but if I were to regret anything, it would be that when I had the choice between seeing "Grey Gardens" or "Pirate Queen" on Broadway, I chose "Pirate Queen". Yeah, me and four other people during the entire run, so I suppose that makes me unique...And I am GUTTED that I don't get HBO and haven't been able to see the film yet. Le sigh.) Anyway, I have always been intrigued by Miss Havisham-like characters, and the Beales, Big Edie and Little Edie, were definitely characters in every sense of the word. The mansion eventually passed to the Bradlees, who have lavished care and attention upon it, rendering the unlivable a family home once more.

On a messageboard I frequent, Sissy was kind enough to post a link to Cote de Texas, a gorgeous blog that recently featured the house. Now, let me warn you, you will want to get comfortable because the blog entry is LONG. It is the most comprehensive entry on any subject in any blog I have ever seen, and it is clearly a labor of love. If you are a Grey Gardens aficionado, it will be time very happily spent. The entry chronicles the life of the house from a happy family home for the Beales, through the years of its decline and the filming of the documentary, through its resurrection by the Bradlees and its glorious replication in the HBO film. Enjoy! (You might also enjoy the other link she posted to Grey Garden News, penned by a raccoon named Buster.)