In which I might want to take a picture

Our electronics have been doing wonky things lately--without Mercury even being retrograde! We've replaced some items, like one of the televisions, and batteries in almost everything else. (And why, I am forced to wonder, does Best Buy happily sell you a laptop but not a replacement battery, hmmmmm?) In any event, with all the electronics demanding attention and a lot of travel coming up, we've decided to poke around and look at new cameras. I don't want anything so expensive that I will die a thousand deaths if anything happens to it, so I'm wondering what you own that you love that is $300 or less. Oh, and it needs to be pretty user-friendly, because you know me--I still think there's a tiny dude inside the camera sketching a picture. Sony? Nikon? Canon? Do tell....

In which being a grown-up rocks

It always amazes me when people wax nostalgic about their youth. Yes, my childhood was fine and dandy, but honestly, being a grown-up is stupendously better. Why? Because of this list of things I will NEVER again have to do in my lifetime:

1. Hit a ball. Run far. Run fast. Pretend to care about foul lines, missed serves, or any other aspect of the ritualized horror that is physical education. (Honestly, why not a nice yoga class or a bit of Zumba? Because wind sprints? NOT CREATIVE, people.)

2. Perform quadratic equations. Let's be entirely forthright here, the vast majority of what we learned in math class is boring and useless for 99.99% of the population--hey look! I just used numbers!--and we all know it. There should be a series of courses called Practical Math and it should do nothing but teach you how to USE math in pragmatic ways like tallying the discount on the mark-down rack at Neiman-Marcus or calculating how much paint you need. And that is IT. Anybody wanting to pursue a career where higher math is needed can take it as an elective and spare the rest of us.

3. Diagram sentences. See above. Unless you are going into a narrow and specialized field populated with pedantic grammarians, you will not care about the proper placement of your participles on a diagram and whether they are dangling. Believe me, I taught it and I don't care.

4. Read a book I don't like. I'm looking at you, Lord of the Flies.

5. Group projects. File this under "does not work well with others". I am STILL holding a grudge against my sophomore English teacher for taking a point off every time my project partner misspelled "Caesar". She docked us more than 40 points for spelling and never graded the content. I hope it still keeps her up at night.

What will you not miss about your youth and childhood?

In which we talk mottoes

I am intrigued by the notion of mottos--the words we would use to describe our intentions or our values. If this were the fourteenth century, we might carve them on the lintels of our stately manors or embroider them onto banners to carry into battle. Today we tattoo them on our bodies or use them as signatures in our web postings--a trifle less impressive, but more accessible to the general public. (Did serfs have mottoes, I wonder? BTW, I have pluralized it as "mottos" and "mottoes" while writing this. AskOxford claims both are correct, but both look impossibly stupid.)

My family--the Mackintoshes--have a motto, "Touch not the cat bot a glove", which is a variation on the ever-popular "Nemo me impune lacessit" when you think about it. (If you've forgotten your Poe, that motto is the one he trots out in "The Cask of Amontillado". It translates to "no one touches me with impunity" and, if memory serves, is also the motto of the city of Edinburgh.) But while I do like the quirkiness of the Mackintosh motto, and it is understandable that the Scottish clans would need to take a firm stand with one another, it does seem a trifle unfriendly in this day and age, don't you think?

I have a few mottoes of my own and they vary depending upon my mood and situation, but there is one that rather neatly packages up the bits and bobs of my life and ties the whole thing in a pretty bit of Latin--"specto subitus", which is a welcome reminder to "expect the unexpected". I have toyed with the notion of having it discreetly tattooed someplace, but I could just as easily paint it above the door of my study or have it engraved on notecards--less expensive, less painful, and less permanent.

And I wonder, what is your motto? And how would you choose to proclaim it?

In which we ponder courage

I've been thinking about courage lately--and authenticity, which requires courage. As it so often happens, pondering something calls to the universe and suddenly you're inundated with messages. (Is it a fresh inundation, I wonder? Or is it that you are simply now attuned to things that were there all along?) Anyway, in Thursday's comments section, Journey--a frequent commenter here whose remarks are thoughtful and wise--posted this about a concept called "butterfly courage":

As a caterpillar, the butterfly blends in with its surroundings and isn't noticeable ... then as she grows into her next stage, she builds itself a coccoon (sp), surrounding herself with a thick wall to keep out all the danger ... but then she realizes how confining and limiting those walls are (how they also keep out the good and wonderful) and struggles to break them down, one piece (one brick) at a time ... and emerges, a beautiful butterfly, stronger than ever before because of the struggle ... who is, by the way, more noticeable than she's ever been before, and thus more out-in-the-open to predators and those that would tear her down or apart ... and yet, still she takes the chance and Flies.

Marianne Williamson once said that when she first began her career everyone was very supportive and "atta girl." But when her popularity took off and she came to the attention of the public in a wonderful way, some of the very same people began a "who does she think she is?" kind of program.

Butterfly Courage: the courage to be as beautiful as you are.

I am reposting it because I wanted to make sure everyone saw it, particularly the last line. The courage to be as beautiful as you are. THAT is a powerful idea. It takes guts to live up to your full potential. I have often observed that the minute you raise your head up to be better than average, there is somebody waiting to lop it off. It's like we're moving along--or perhaps mooooooving along--in bovine contentment, placidly munching our way from one field to the next, without ever looking up to see the horizon. Well, here's a note for all of us: if you cannot see the horizon, you cannot get there.

And who wants to be stuck in a field of cowpats with a herd of people who are just like you? Wouldn't it make for a lovely world if everybody were doing their own thing, living authentically, being THEIR best, and not worrying about what other folks were up to? Then we could appreciate one another for our differences and our achievements instead of feeling threatened by them.

But that isn't our world, alas. There are too many people who suffer from the fatal taint of insecurity, withering their own spirits and poisoning the well of creativity for everybody else. These are people who will never reach their own potential and cannot stand to see anybody else reach theirs. Sad, terminal, pitiable, but to be avoided at all costs. Life is either far too long or far too short to live it at the behest of others. Whatever aspirations you have--and look at that word, aspiration. It is related to inspiration, words that link breath and hope, perhaps the two most primitive and essential components of life--and do not be dissuaded by anyone.

Time to trot out my favorite quote, written by Marianne Williamson and used by Nelson Mandela in his inaugural speech:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

So, how will you shine your light?

In which I have missed you!

Happy 2010, readers! I hope the holidays were good to you. I missed you while I was away, and we have loads to catch up on--most notably that Silent in the Grave is at last available in trade paperback!

Also, I will be blogging and chatting over at Writerspace in the month of January, details to come. I adore the chats because they give me a chance to touch base with readers I might not see in the course of my travels.

I was so pleased to find Silent on the Moor on several bloggers' lists as a favorite for 2009--much appreciated!

There were lots of questions via e-mail and facebook about the book trailer for The Dead Travel Fast. In case you missed the little discussion on facebook, the quick rundown is that my husband and I put the trailer together. We set ourselves the challenge to create a trailer for no money at all, and I think the end result achieved precisely the effect we wanted. I chose the photos from our own pictures taken during vacations--except for one or two we shot specifically for the trailer. I selected the quotes and music, and my husband did all the rest, which was masses more than I did, if I'm honest. (He's my ringer. His own job is very creative and sometimes requires him to make power point presentations or short movies to pitch a project.) In any case, we got something creepy and atmospheric, had some fun, and kept to our nonexistent budget!

We will be back to our regularly-scheduled bloggery as of tomorrow--see you then!

In which I'm curious about organization

I love the idea of being organized--truly. In some ways, I'm pretty good at it. (The key is making sure you understand how YOU think and organize accordingly. It does no good to put everything away in boxes and file folders if you are a terribly visual person because you'll never find it again. And anyone who says there is a single correct way to organize is daft.) I confess, I don't use my iphone the way God and Steve Jobs intended. I use the note function to keep myself VERY organized--lists for bookstore trips, library excursions, gifts to buy. My agent is still staggered that when we visited a yarn store together in NYC, I whipped out my iphone to open a note where I had jotted what sort of yarn I wanted for a particular knitting project. This is why people always think I'm more organized than I really am. I'm also entirely hopeless at things like filofaxes--although I LOVE them--and planner pads. I greatly appreciate the IDEA of these things, but the truth is, I like to write out my thoughts by hand and I need space to do it.

Most of my organizational systems are adequate but tweakable and I do experiment from time to time to see if I can improve them. The area I'm fiddling with now is the daily to-do list. I find I accomplish more if I have one, and when I'm feeling particularly hard against it, I will write down mundane things like "start dishwasher" just so I can cross it off and feel virtuous. But keeping a to-do list on a random piece of paper is unthinkable to me, so I have an enormous spiral notebook--enormous because my handwriting is large. On the front page I have a running to-do list of projects that I want to tackle over the next few months. On days when I need a specific list, I date a page and jot down everything I want to do, crossing things off as they get accomplished.

But recently I've refined the technique a little, and starting using the back sides of the pages for my journal. There are loads of reasons why. First, I hate keeping track of multiple notebooks. I already have them in every room of the house, and adding a dedicated journal to the mix is unnecessary. Second, half of my to-do notebook would be going to waste otherwise. Third, my journal entries are usually a sort of mental housekeeping where I unpack the crowded places, air them out, and put things neatly away again. I don't need a special place to do that. Besides, tying it to what I was doing at the time seems to help me sort out what I was trying to work through at any given time.

And I'm wondering, how do YOU stay organized? And do you keep a journal?

In which I am pondering

As I told you yesterday, I had a power glitch on Friday and lost some work. (Thank heaven it was revision work and not something completely fresh or I would still be howling.) Anyway, as you know, I've been doing some thinking about personal growth issues, being positive, rejecting stress, yada yada. And then I had my minor catastrophe, which I was not at all surprised by. (It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by me, that as soon as I undertake to refine myself a wee bit, something comes along to say, "Hey, giving serenity a try? Let's see how it's working for you.")

And it was a struggle to get past it. First off, when I lose work, I get completely enraged in ways that only Bruce Banner would understand. The fact that I could have done one or two things to mitigate the losses beforehand and DIDN'T only made me more inclined to throw breakables. I didn't, but oh, how I longed to.

The second most challenging part is that when people know you're working on self-improvement (a phrase I loathe, but it's late and the original turn of phrase eludes me), is that everyone expects you to snap right out of it. Honestly, I felt a lot more like snapping heads off, but I did figure out a plan of action. Here's what I needed:

1. A sympathetic ear. Sometimes you just need to have someone pat your head and say, "Yes, that was the most catastrophic thing EVER to happen to anyone". And then you can rise above it and be noble and say, "Well, not really, but thank you for understanding".

2. A breather. As it happened, I didn't have much time to work on fixing the losses before I had to leave the house for a doctor's appointment. I came thiiiiiiis close to canceling, but unless I am carrying the ebola virus, I just can't bring myself to cancel a doctor's appointment on short notice. So I went, and getting away from the problem for a little while actually helped.

3. Assessment of the situation with a clear head. Once I was able to see through the red mist of rage, I figured out that the schedule I had for finishing the revisions was unrealistic, particularly after I lost half a day. So, I reworked the schedule by eliminating something I did not actually need to do. Et voila, something completely workable and humane.

4. Playtime. I know. It seems counter-intuitive, but before I settled back in to work, I took a few minutes off. I grabbed a novel, brewed a cup of Irish tea the size of my own head, and settled into the couch for a quarter of an hour of guilt-free reading. I put on my most comfortable and ludicrous pajamas to make me smile, and then went back to my study to get to work.

5. A support system. My parents, who really ought to be given medals of some sort, swung into action, and told me not to worry about picking the girlchild up from school or fixing dinner. They fed me and freed me up to finish the recovery of the work I'd lost.

So, was it a perfect day? Not by a long shot. But it ended up being a productive one, in unexpected ways.

In which I ponder things I don't like that everyone else does

Have you experienced the peculiar sort of "outside looking in" feeling of not liking something that everyone else adores? Me too. Yesterday, I read a tweet where someone mentioned sushi and I gagged. (Seriously, it's like chewing on a balloon but without the fun helium voice. WHY?) And that got me thinking about things I seem to have missed out on catching the bandwagon for...

1. Kids. Yeah, I adore my own child, but everyone is always shocked when I say I don't really like other people's children, and then at least 40% confess to not liking them either. I think it's the last great taboo to say you're not a huge fan of children, but honestly, so few people bother teaching their kids manners these days that it's just like being around a 60-pound puppy that demands your attention and gets into your stuff and I have one of those. (If you are one of the four people I know whose kids are actually well-mannered and polite and don't walk around with stuff crusted on their eyes or hanging out of their noses, then you can relax because your children are the exception to the rule.)

2. "The Little Drummer Boy." The Christmas song most likely to induce head trauma because it makes me want to slam my forehead to the wall every time I hear it. Give me those stupid chipmunks and their hula hoop ANY day.

3. Huge neighborhood Christmas light displays. Oh, I have got my Grinch on now, haven't I? But really, I have never understood where the "good will towards men" is supposed to be found in blasting a gajillion and twelve watts of lighting into your neighbors' windows and snarling up traffic for six weeks. It's eco-horrible and fairly pointless. Anything more than a few strands ought to be left to the professionals who are probably using more energy-efficient lighting and offering it up to thousands of folks at one time.

4. Any online game, especially one that requires you to adopt a new identity, an avatar, and a weapons array. Put the controller down and MEET PEOPLE.

5. Showers. Baby, bridal, whatever. I loathe them with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns, and I have adopted a strict no-shower policy for the past ten years. I might consider an exception if there were no themed decorations, no enforced party games, and an open bar. But I'm not making any promises. And you can blame the overly-enthusiastic hostess of a baby shower who pinned a tiny cloth diaper on my lapel and said, "If this is full of poo, then you're the big winner!"

If I've insulted one of your favorite things, I do most heartily apologize. Of course, these are merely my own personal quirks, and for all I know, my target reader demographic is light-loving, shower-throwing, sushi-eating gamers with kids. Oh, well.

In which I no longer believe in "stress"

Disclaimer: in this post I'm not talking about folks dealing with serious troubles, depression, grief, etc. I am referring to the garden-variety issues we encounter on a daily basis and how we seem to have "whine, moan, and complain" as a default setting these days.

I am not involved with stress anymore. Nope, I'm done. I'm breaking up with stress and no, we can't be friends. Over the past several years--and in particular the last few months--I've done quite a bit of reading about metaphysical things, specifically how worrying and talking about something can create it. (In the South, we call this "talking something up". People swear my friend Pippa has actually killed folks simply by discussing their deaths, but that may be stretching it a bit far.)

Anyway, I started pondering the other day how everybody always says they're doing fine and nobody ever means it. If you scratch the surface, the troubles pour out and it always ends with, "I'm just so stressed." And it finally occurred to me, no, we're not stressed. WE'RE LIVING. The car trouble, the doctors' appointments, the bouts of ill health, the annoying boss, the deadlines and demands are not stressors, they are things that happen. It's how we view them that makes them so.

Example: my husband's schedule occasionally gets crazy. His usual forty-hour work week becomes The Thing That Would Not Die and he starts putting in fourteen-hour days. Now, this is completely normal for his job and it doesn't last forever, but it does come around regular as clockwork. He is always courteous about reminding me that one of those times is about to hit, but with the last one I finally realized those work avalanches are engulfing because I expect them to be. And so does he. He looked at me a few weeks ago and said, "It's fixing to get crazy at work" because we're from Texas and we use "fixing" as a helping verb a LOT. And I said, "No, it's not getting crazy at work because this IS your work." I don't think it is coincidence that this period of long days was easier than previous ones. I expected it to be easier and it was.

So I have started applying that principle to other things and stress is the most far-reaching. We wear stress like a badge of honor these days, as if being stressed means we're busy and productive and virtuous. Sometimes, you know, it just means we're too stupid to say no to things we don't really want to do. And sometimes it means we're too shortsighted to see that this is just the view from here. To-ing and fro-ing is part of the human experience, at least in the 21st century. Ours is the generation that cannot survive without our smartphones and our packed schedules, but I think it's time for a revolution, a slacker revolution.

I'm proposing this, that we slow down, that we stop going and doing and focus on being. That we downsize our lives and focus on what really matters instead of the sound and the fury. That we stop saying we're stressed and start accepting that we're just living. Don't get me wrong, my grandmother's generation didn't talk about stress, but I don't think they were much better off. I knew a fair number of women her age who suffered in silence and went off to smother their feelings and pop "nerve pills" rather than express an opinion or make a demand. I think there has to be a middle road, one where we don't make ourselves crazy nor do we let anybody else have the privilege. So I at least will be watching what I say because what I say I create and I'd rather create some contentment. In fact, I think that will be my new word of choice because all the things that could stress me--taking care of house, family, work, dog--are all things I have CHOSEN to have in my life, things that bring me great happiness. From now on, I'm not stressed. I am content.

In which I contemplate retreat

I love the idea of retreat, don't you? Particularly at this time of year when there is so much to do, to be, to make. The notion of simply withdrawing and being small and still and quiet is alluring. Don't get me wrong, I am very much in the holiday spirit this year, but sometimes that carousel of activity whirls a bit too fast for me and I long to jump off. And that's when I start looking up convents online. I've always liked the idea of nuns, dating to when I saw an episode of "The Bionic Woman" where Jaime went undercover at a convent and wore a habit. (I LOVED the habit. The flowing, austere black and white--no wonder Coco Chanel claimed to have been forever shaped as a designer by her early years in an orphanage. Probably not true, but a good story, no?)

Anyway, that episode set me on a career path until my mother sat me down and explained that if I became a nun I couldn't wear makeup, couldn't have any boyfriend besides God, and that--perhaps more to the point--we weren't Catholic. So I gave up my dream of taking the veil, which let's be honest, was really just about the VEIL itself.(Why did those go out of fashion? Veils are CHIC.) But even though I turned my ambitions elsewhere, I still remembered the cool silence, the long polished hallways, the lack of chatter at meals, and decided that convents would still be an excellent place to go and enjoy a bit of repose.

I keep imagining a peaceful place with a quiet room, a stack of books, and no interruptions, perhaps with a bit of plainsong in the background. Of course, this is a hopelessly outdated and naive picture of convent life. I have since toured the convent where the nuns at my daughter's school live and it's nothing at ALL like I pictured. There are no floor-sweeping black habits or herb knot gardens or vows of silence, and it occurs to me that I might like a pedicure or massage during my retreat so a spa is really the best place for me. I wonder if I could find one that enforces silence and pipes in a nice bit of medieval chant?

In which I might have a new life philosophy

Recently I ran across a quote: "I live like I'm always on vacation." Now, the woman quoted was being profiled in a fashion magazine so the piece turned to how she dresses, but I admit I am far more interested in how she lives. I started pondering how I would live if I were always on vacation, and the picture is a seductive one.

1. I wouldn't sweat the small stuff. In my day-to-day life, the details are what bog me down. On vacations, I move airily through the slowdowns, the breakdowns, the little annoyances because I am on vacation, and to loose my poise would threaten the entire trip, a trip for which I have spent lots of money and raised lots of hope. Mindful of the cost to both my wallet and my peace of mind, I let the little things go and put on a happy face when I have to deal with glitches.

2. I would be nicer. Because I'm on vacation, I'm conscious of being less stressed, and in turn, I'm nicer to everybody, including myself. I release my perfectionism and go with the flow more.

3. I would read more for pleasure. I never take work on a vacation with me, aside from the tiny flash drive that contains my last four novels. And that's just a safety precaution; I never actually get it near a computer because I stay far, far away from computers when I'm on vacation and I never travel with a laptop. So vacations are my one opportunity to fill my bags with a combination of books I have loved and books I expect to love. (Somehow the Kindle hasn't changed this at all. Because I had the Kindle battery die on me quite unexpectedly once, I always take a stack of books, usually cozy English mysteries.)

4. I would take more chances. When I travel, I often adopt a more devil-may-care attitude about things. I try new foods, I ignore the voice that natters on in the back of my mind trying to keep me safe and sedate. (You know the voice. She sounds like a prim little spinster and harps at you about eating your vegetables and getting your eight and a half hours of sleep every night.)

5. I would take more pictures. Well, alright, I don't actually take pictures on vacation, but my husband does, and therefore vacations are documented. Everyday life should be documented too, slices of reality preserved in aspic. I have gotten better about this since I bought an iphone, but I could improve.

6. I would check my email, Twitter, and Facebook accounts less. On vacation I am completely focused on my family. I do not check my various social media accounts, nor do I attend to email. My family is my priority and my pleasure during vacations.

And I wonder, how would you live differently if you lived your life as if you were always on vacation?

In which I am musing on bad people

A situation has cropped up recently that has gotten me to wondering, what makes a bad person? I think we all agree that anybody who abuses kids or kills folks is probably bad. (I say probably because you can always split ethical hairs here, and if you killed someone to prevent them from bombing a room full of people, you'd probably be considered a hero.) But I digress. What I'm really wondering about is the rest of us. When do our daily foibles and failures carry us over the line from good people who are fallible to people who are just not good PERIOD?

The situation is that a woman I know is friends with a mistress. She insists the mistress is a lovely, wonderful person who just happens to be involved in this situation. I pointed out that someone who willingly collaborates in endangering a marriage might have to stretch to reach the label of "wonderful". But it got me thinking, is this a bad woman? This is an ongoing relationship, so we can't give her the benefit of the doubt that she might not know his situation. We can't excuse her on any possible grounds of ignorance or gullibility or youth. She apparently has a history of making bad choices with men, and this is just the latest.

So is she a good person with a blind spot? A victim who is acting out to serve her own psychological issues? Or is she a bad person because she does bad things? At what point do we say, this is no longer a nice person or a good person because what she does is simply too big to be overlooked? How far can we excuse people we care about when they are deliberately choosing to engage in behavior that is destructive, willful, and--to most people--amoral? And what do we do when we are no longer willing to condone?

I have no answers here. I am merely wondering how this all fits together and when we cross the line from good folks who are misguided into being bad folks. I deal with these questions quite a lot in my novels because I am fascinated with the grey area in between. I like to create murderers who are justified--at least in their own minds--and upright citizens who leave mayhem in their wake. And then question of accountability is an endlessly fascinating one, I think. You?

On a side note, the girlchild is back at school this week--many thanks for the good thoughts!

In which I write a flying post

Thanks so much for the good wishes--my daughter is doing very well. We just have to keep a close eye on her for complications at this point and make sure she's getting nothing but rest and hydration!

We are on day three of our nor'easter, but the winds have died quite a bit and the rain is much lighter--the end is in sight at last, thank heaven. Between the storm and the swine, it's been a very strange week where I've been living an odd, hermetic sort of life. I haven't been out of the house at all since last weekend, except for a quick trip to the doctor on Wednesday, and I think I have forgotten how to drive and speak to people! But nesting has been the best thing for us, so I have in turn made the best of it. We've burned pumpkin candles and watched Lifetime movies and thumbed through Nigella books and eaten lots of things with cinnamon and drunk endless cups of tea. In the end, the week has been oddly comforting, and probably a good break before I start the last great push of revisions.

So, happy weekend, readers--and your good thoughts have been much appreciated!

In which you might need a little life coaching

Don't we all? As I mentioned last week, I realized that I have woefully neglected myself the past few months and I am making up for lost time. Mercifully, the self is quite forgiving. I have worked through some issues in the past week that have dogged me for years simply because I decided I was ready to really pay attention to those little things that niggle away at the back of your mind but are never serious enough to demand real attention. It is astonishing how resilient the inner self is and how quickly and gratefully it responds to focused effort.

I'm not trying to be cryptic--my demons are mild and harmless fellows for the most part. For example, last week I realized for the first time that there are a few areas in which I am a people-pleaser. I don't like treading on toes or exerting my authority--stop laughing, I can hear you--but I discovered that it is precisely the times that I am uncomfortable doing so that I need to be able to feel confident in my choices. Oh, dear. I've slipped into cryptic again, haven't I? In that case, let's move on.

When I realized I wanted to do some personal growth work, I assembled my toolkit--books, podcasts, my journal. I printed out three months' worth of Daily Oms that I had neglected to really read and began to highlight them. And I found Christine Arylo's Self-Love Studio. Right now Christine is offering a FREE seven week teleclass with some of the most amazingly motivated and inspirational guru-chicks! I was intrigued by the fact that the class was free and at a convenient time--9pm Eastern on Wednesdays--but when I saw the roster of speakers, I signed up.

I should admit that I was a trifle skeptical and looked around for some fine print, but the class is entirely free. You can purchase MP3s of the classes if you like as well as some ancillary materials, but you can also just take advantage of the teleclass and invest only your time. I am sorry to say that I found the class too late to hear the first speaker, but I made it in time to hear Kimberly Wilson, and if you sign up now, you'll be right on track for the five remaining classes. If you're worried about spam, I will tell you that I have received two e-mails from Christine's studio with class details and that's it.

So, a little free life coaching from some amazing women--what's not to love?

In which I continue to muse

Back to yesterday's post--honestly, I have no idea how it posted. I hit control somethingorother and POOF. There it was. Honestly.

Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes a change in your physical environment is helpful in supporting creativity. I have also taken all the tiny notes I had posted all over the wall next to my desk and typed them up into a single sheet of paper titled "Miscellanea". It's just an odd little jumble of mundane facts, snippets of lines I dreamed and want to use in a book someday, names for future characters, etc. Nothing earth-shaking, but nothing I wanted to lose. So I gathered it up in one spot and freed up rather a lot of real estate next to my desk.

I am also supporting my creativity with changes to my writing schedule. Just for now--GULP--I am not answering e-mail, blogging, tweeting, or checking Facebook until after I have worked. Oh, God, I think I feel the withdrawal hitting already. But the truth is, it is SO easy to get sucked into answering an e-mail because I know it will only take a few minutes or jotting a blog entry, when I really need to be writing instead when I am fresh and motivated. I think I fell into the habit of checking the other media because I worry something tremendously important might be happening that I should know about. Well, I just took four days off and for two of them I never even turned on a computer and guess what? The world was still there. Everybody who REALLY needs me has my phone number.

I am also shutting down the laptop as of suppertime. No after-dinner web-surfing for me. I will go online to buy a book or check my library account or my e-mail and when I look up, two hours have passed. No more! I am reclaiming my evenings.

So, what excellent tricks do YOU have for keeping yourself in balance?

And a side note to a reader who might never see it--last week it was brought to my attention that a reader named Mary recommended my books in the comments section of the Pop Watch column of Entertainment Weekly's website. Word of mouth is tremendously important to writers, and it is MUCH appreciated!

In which I have failed you

Oh, woe, dear readers. I did not mean to neglect you. The truth was, I got diverted doing some mental housekeeping and simply did not write today's blog entry. (Somehow when I stockpiled them last week, I thought I had included one for Tuesday...mea culpa.)

Autumn is introspective, I think. I always seem to do some good work on myself in autumn, clearing out the cluttered closets in my head and refolding everything neatly and tucking things tidily away so I can find them again.

Last July, I sat and chatted with an aspiring writer, lecturing her firmly on the necessity for supporting one's personal creativity. And then I proceeded to come home and neglect my own severely. (What do they say about the cobbler's wife? Yeah, my soles were getting pretty thin.) Anyway, I have taken that big broom of change to my habits and am swallowing a dose of my own advice, just to mix a few metaphors.

For starters, I am reworking my inspiration boards. (Not to be confused with my book collages.) My inspiration boards are a pair of ribbon-tacked boards that hang near my desk with pictures of things I like on them--some silly, some thought-provoking. There are cards from friends, postcards from my travels, and dangling from one of them is the violet tutu my daughter wore when she was three. But they haven't been touched in a few years--appalling, no?--and it was definitely time to rearrange them so I can see them with a fresh eye.

Oops! Just accidentally published this--I have NO idea how--but since I did, I will pause here and ramble on again tomorrow...

In which I am not here today

I'm here, but not really. Today my darling child has to have two teeth pulled and I am in full-on crazy mother mode. (A few years ago, during my first book tour, a friend in Tennessee gave me a purse flask. I may be drive to actually use it today. Okay, not really, but I am going to be doing a lot of meditation and mindful breathing and will hope that helps take the edge off.)

Anyway, any good thoughts you would care to send our way today would be very much appreciated. And to give something entirely frivolous, I offer the quiz, Could You Survive a Zombie Attack? Because really, it's just good sense to be prepared.

In which we catch up

General miscellany today, my friends. First, Silent on the Moor has made Murder by the Book's bestseller list for 2009 so far! Much love to the indie bookstores for all of their hard work in handselling my books to their loyal customers. I LOVE Murder by the Book, a Houston landmark, and have had some fantastic signings there. (And they ship!)

The Halloween decorations did not make it up this weekend due to vagaries in the weather and general malaise around our house. Well, not so much malaise as "I would rather take a two-hour nap than wrestle with a life-size plywood witch." But they are going up this morning without fail and this weekend we should finally get to the farmstand to buy our pumpkins, cornstalks, and gourds.

And third, I recently subscribed to some of the goodies from Daily Om and cannot recommend them highly enough. There are all sorts of resources for living a more centered and mindful life, and I am thoroughly enjoying my daily emails. Somehow they manage to send me precisely the right topic at precisely the right time. I've found them so timely I have tucked several away in a folder in my inbox to read again when the same situations come around. There's even a Daily Om book in bookstores now!

Lastly, this morning the dog woofed and woke me up from a dream in which I was initiating a shuttle launch. I have never had any desire to go into space, so either this dream is metaphorical or my subconscious has latched onto the five minutes of "Space Camp" I watched the other day. (Which, I would like to point out, is a VERY good film to remember when you're playing the Kevin Bacon game...)

In which I ponder shopping

So lately I've been in a funk (whine, complain, yada, yada) and generally when I'm in a funk, I shop. Some of my worst purchases have come at a time of emotional fragility. We aren't even going to TALK about the flouncy black illusion petticoat I bought two years ago. (And if you're trying to picture it, don't think it was a demure crinoline. Oh, no, my friends. It was like a square dancing petticoat on steroids. I couldn't even close my closet door once it established a nest.)

Anyway, in the interests of fiscal responsibility I have been trying to analyze my spending patterns and shape them more wisely. I have discovered that I am a binge shopper. I will go for months without buying anything important, then suddenly I have half the living room redecorated and am getting thank-you notes from White House/Black Market in the mail. (Is it wrong when a retailer sends you birthday cards?) I spend more when I'm emotional, although this time I have curbed myself sufficiently to buy one magazine--Red!--and...good heavens, I think that's IT! There are no shameful surprises lurking in my closet as evidence of my feeling lowly, which I have to say I'm feeling rather proud of at present. I'm vastly impressed by the people who put themselves on spending freezes, but I am SO not one of them. I could never be constrained by the idea that I can't spend at all, but reading blogs by people who have taken the plunge to cut off their clothes shopping has inspired me to at least be more organized about mine.

Enter the iphone. I have made a list on my notepad of my clothing wishes. (It's organized AND it's attraction thinking, I figure.) I have tried to puzzle out the empty spots in my wardrobe and decide what best could fill them. So my list is a hodge-podge of flat equestrian boots, patterned blouses, and dark jeans, but at least I am not walking into a store in a state of trembling vulnerability. I'm hoping that having the list will keep me on track to finding precisely what I need to expand the wardrobe I already have. (Although a totally impractical sequinned cocktail dress is sometimes JUST what a girl needs. I make no promises.)

So how do you shop? Are you organized or do you just troll around for what looks good?

In which you just have to laugh

Okay, I know today is supposed to be a deadly sin day, but we'll save the sin for tomorrow and instead laugh about what a fiasco my "perfect day" was. It started with the pup deciding to get up every two hours because of tummy troubles--yes, I know the euphemism is twee, but believe me, it's better than the unvarnished truth. Anyway, the dog had us up at midnight, two, four, six, and seven. By the time we staggered out of bed, neither one of us was sure which way was up.

Instead of a leisurely morning, we attacked some projects on the property that needed attending to. (My daughter refers to anything that requires work gloves as Redneck Belle behavior.) We cleaned up and DID have a very nice birthday lunch for my father with far too much Italian food. I also wrote my quota and was very pleased with it, and this was followed by a birthday tea party, then more property work, dog walking, Mediterranean snacking for supper, and finally some Emmy action with popcorn. So, while I managed a few of the elements I wanted for Sunday, at least half of what I did was nowhere on the list--I had NO intention of laboring physically, I promise! I also managed a few loads of laundry in there and finished skimming three books, so it was a productive day.

I suppose the larger lesson is that as much as you can envision a perfect day, life intervenes, and the trick to salvaging a very good day is just to roll with it. And in all it was indeed a very good day.

In which I'm curious

Mostly about why I thought I had blogged today when I hadnt'! But beyond that, I'm curious about intentions. I've mentioned several times my work with intentions and how effective a tool they are for me. So far,I've used them in specific situations, but it suddenly occurred to me to wonder if I could use them to conjure a perfect day--or at least my version of one.

If I were to have a perfect Sunday today, it would go like this: Deacon would sleep in, which means we would sleep in. (I'm talking 7am here, so it isn't like I'm asking for the moon. He tends to get up about 5:30, so really anything past that is something to be happy about.) My husband makes breakfast every morning, which I love, and after that I would putter--topcoating my nails, walking the dog, and choosing an outfit for my father's birthday lunch. After feasting on Italian food, my husband leaves for work, and I would settle in to write a deeply satisfying scene. When I finish, I will have a healthy, light supper of Mediterranean nibblies--olives, pita, hummus, tomatoes. Then some reflective time for my journal and working on my aspirations list for the next year or my collage for the new book. Finally, I would settle into bed with my daughter and some popcorn and the Emmys, followed by some ghost stories before bedtime. It would be a day that balances me time with family and work, serious with silly, and lots of laughing.

We'll see how it goes as far as meeting those intentions, and in the meantime, what's your idea of a perfect Sunday, dear readers?

In which I'm musing on a truth

I have made no secret of my girl crush on Kimberly Wilson--she's just adorable, and I love how she combines her entrepreneurial endeavors with her spirituality and frosts it all with a big dollop of pink sugar icing. Recently I ran across a quote on her blog that speaks volumes to me in the way that only an immutable truth can do:

"i've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - maya angelou

Today I'm thinking about my friend Kim. Her energy is warm and embracing, and just being around her makes you feel like you've been hugged. And I'm wondering, who makes YOU feel good?

In which it is Monday

It is gray and damp and cool here and I can pretend that autumn is on its way. I am SO over summer. This weekend I did some hand-sewing and stared longingly at my sweaters. Today I am curling up with a pot of tea and some ghost stories--it's work, I promise.

Anyway, last week I made a flippant remark about blogging on Mondays about the seven deadly sins, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Last week was envy. Today, let's muse about wrath, shall we?

Recently, I've become convinced that the root of anger is almost always fear. As soon as I say this, people argue with me. "No, I'm not afraid. I'm outraged!" they tell me stoutly. Yes, I think but don't say. But what if you dug a little deeper?

Rage is usually the result of feeling powerless, disrespected, undervalued. And why does this make us angry? Because we're afraid of BEING powerless, disrespected, and undervalued. It isn't easy to excavate to the depths of anger for its source. For starters, we're seldom capable of clear, rational thought when we're incandescent with rage. But if we revisit the situation later, when our heads are cool and our vision is clear, if we ask hard questions and are willing to hear hard answers, it's astonishing how much of our adult anger is the result of some fear lurking in the dark under the bed.

So we stamp our feet and turn puce in the face, covering our wrath with bluster and bravado and shielding our tender underbellies with spikes. It makes us feel stronger and more in control, but it seems to me this is an illusion. I am LEAST in control when I am angry. But if I can stop, if I can pause for a breath and try to identify what not what's making me mad, but what's making me AFRAID, instantly the situation is reframed. Suddenly, it's not about me being aggressive; it's about me being vulnerable. And vulnerability is easy to understand and to sympathize with. Instead of chastising myself for temper, I am able to see the circumstances and my own state of mind for what they really are, not what my anger is distorting them to be. And without rage getting in my way, I can resolve matters more easily, more swiftly.

What's fascinating to me is how resistant people can be to even the possibility that they are harboring deeply-buried fear. (Fascinating because the people who protest the loudest are the ones who seem MOST fearful.) I recently had a conversation with a woman who was enraged at her employee's shortcoming. We were discussing my conviction that fear was at the root of her reaction, and she firmly insisted it was plain, old-fashioned anger. But I wonder. The woman is dynamic and takes great pride in her job. Her employee's gaffe was going to possibly reflect badly upon my friend. The higher-ups in her ad company were sure to notice. I didn't press the matter, but the more we spoke, the clearer it became that she was worried that her employee's blunder would be laid at her door and not forgotten--an extremely logical fear, I thought, but one my friend was completely unwilling to acknowledge was even a possibility. And I wondered, if she had been at least open to looking at fear, would she have been able to release the situation more quickly instead of fretting over it as long as she did? (As a side note, I find that the idea I have the most violent knee-jerk reaction against is invariably the one I need to look at more closely. When things touch a nerve, our instinctive reaction is to jump back...)

In which it is Monday

which usually means re-posts from the original Blog A Go-Go, but today I thought I'd share a link I found yesterday to an extraordinary blog entry at The Word Cellar. It is the webby home of Jennifer McGuiggan, freelance editor and writer, and the topic is envy as inspiration. (And I think I have just this minute decided to make Mondays "Seven Deadly Sins Day" and blog about lust, envy, pride, etc. for the next seven weeks. Wouldn't THAT be fun?) Anyway, envy is one of those prickly things we don't like to talk about. It's ugly and misshapen and we shove it to the back of the closet under clothes that no longer fit us and toys we have broken. In this entry, Jennifer drags it into the light and dusts it off and puts it to work--a genius idea and a very good reminder that someone else's success doesn't mean there's less for YOU.

In which you might not want to come over

if I ever invite you for a mushroom omelet. We've had a fair bit of rain the past few weeks and the mushrooms are sprouting up like...well, like mushrooms. Because none of us are amateur mycologists, we're assuming they're all poisonous to the pups and yanking them out whenever we see them. (With proper precautions, of course. Gloves always, and the mushrooms are put into plastic bags so the spores won't escape and make baby mushrooms.) This is the largest we've found so far. I have included the glove for scale. Alarming, isn't it? I suspect it's a member of the genus Boletus, but since some boletes are poisonous, I'm certainly not slicing it up for dinner.

In which we talk locales

Both mine and those of the series. In reader questions, Suzanne wanted to know about Virginia winters and Kim wanted to know if the series would go back to England or continue to be set abroad.

The Tidewater area of Virginia has wonderful winters! It's cold enough that I've had to amass a collection of boots and scarves and various bits of woolly goodness--things which would have gone entirely to waste in south Texas. It snows a few times a year, but only a few inches which still manages to shut the town down, so if you see snow in the forecast and you live in this area, you immediately head to the store to stock up. People don't go to work, kids don't go to school. Everybody stays home to make snow angels and drink hot chocolate. It all melts off in a day or so and life as normal resumes. I, for one, strongly support the enforced relaxation.

As far as the series goes, I want to alternate between English books and books abroad. After the India book will come one set in London and Sussex, and after that I want to go to the Continent. It keeps things fresh and interesting for me and for the readers, I think.

In which we have reader questions

First of all, a HUGE bouquet of thank-yous to everyone who left a comment or question on Friday. I wrote Saturday's blog entry on Friday morning when there was a fraction of the total that would end up being posted, and I was so delighted when the number kept climbing! We have loads of great questions to answer, but I'm also so happy that several of you accepted the invitation just to pop in and say "hi". When I sign with other writers they always comment on how enthusiastic and gracious my readers are and I just smile and say, "I KNOW." Y'all are fabulous, end of story. (Leslie, thank you in particular. I didn't realize your mother was ill, and please let her know she has my very best wishes.)

So, onto some juicy reader questions! Karen posted: Are you a plotter or a pantser? How much of your story do you know in advance before you actually start writing or do you just wing it? Do you need silence or music in the background? The writing process fascinates me. I am what I call an organized pantser. I know where I am going; I just don't necessarily know how I'm going to get there! Here's a reply I gave during an interview last winter that discusses the matter in more detail: My novels always begin with a single snippet of an idea. It can be a line of poetry, a painting, an odd historical fact. And then I start weaving the spider’s web out from there. I try to think it out logically; if A happens, then B must happen. What sort of person would do A in the first place? What would they do if C happened instead? Plot and character are developed at the same time, with plot usually coming in just a bit ahead. I read and research while I’m plotting, and then I write, always without a detailed, formal outline. I know my characters. I know where we’re beginning; I know where we’re going. I’m just never certain quite how we’re going to get there. But each day’s scene dictates the scene for the next day, so on a day-to-day basis I know precisely what I’m doing. Usually I know the next two or three scenes, but no more.

And here's another response to a related question in the same interview that also covers the process: I prefer to write in the morning, and I prefer to write every day. If I am on a deadline I will write a quota each day. If I’m writing at a slower pace, I am likelier to write scene by scene instead. Each evening I will read over what I wrote that day and make corrections by hand. The next morning I will start by inputting those changes, then I’m nicely warmed up to start writing. I always write on my computer. I would love to be one of those bohemian artistic types who can write in a coffee house, but I just can’t. Writing longhand changes the rhythm of the narrative for me, and that’s deadly. I always write to music, usually movie soundtracks or something written in the period I’m writing about. If all else fails, it’s Bach. And I do have a little corner of sacred space in my study, so there is usually a candle burning or a bit of incense. And I make inspiration boards for each book, an enormous collage of images that somehow relate to the book, settings, faces, bits of architecture or scenery. The current board is always hung where I can see it from my desk. Lately, I have been taking a few minutes to meditate and light a candle and write an intention for that day’s work as a way of putting myself into a purposeful and creative state of mind.

I should post my usual caveat: what I've just described is my process. If you are an aspiring writer, I beg of you, do not read that and think that is how YOU should do it. Writing is a hugely idiosyncratic business. We all do it differently and we all do it in a way that works for US. If anything about my process helps you, fabulous--take it and run. But don't ever think that you have to write the same way anybody else does.

For Australian reader melscott, Julia wears a violet scent. I'll post about your second question another day!

In which I'm answering reader questions

Yesterday I opened the blog up to questions from readers and got loads of great ones! So for the next few days--with Sunday off, of course--I'll be working my way through them, in no particular order. (And big thanks to those of you who just stopped by to say "hi!")

Nina wanted to know if I ever planned on "writing books that aren't in the mystery category"--specifically a ghost story. She also wanted to know the most interesting place I've ever visited for research purposes. (She also asked if I've made the Paula Deen recipe for banana pudding. Nina was nice enough to send it along a few weeks back.)

Funny you ask about writing books that aren't mysteries because I have other people asking if I'm going to write books that aren't romances! Personally, I consider the books mainstream with appeal to readers in both genres, but other folks categorize them according to their own standards, and that's just fine with me. To get to the meat of your question, I think there will always be some element of the mysterious in everything I write, although I can certainly see myself straying from the path of the "proper" mystery. I've never tried my hand at a ghost story, but "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James is one of my favorites, so who knows?

The most interesting place I've visited for research is Yorkshire. From the moors to the intensely atmospheric East Riddlesden Hall to the charm of Sledmere House, I loved it ALL. The weather was beautiful, the cream teas were to die for, and the landscape is lovely.

And no--no banana pudding yet because I don't keep white sugar in the house! I think Paula's fab, but reading her recipes is a sort of armchair travel for me. I can appreciate them even if I don't go there!

Anonymous asked if Portia will ever find true love and happiness. Now, naturally I can't give away what happens in book four, but I will say that Portia is going to play a large role in the book and there are significant developments in her personal life. (I have great affection for her myself.)

Kimmie7977 asked if I knew the title of the next Julia Grey book. I do, actually, but I can't share it just yet because I'm waiting on formal approval from my publisher. As soon as I have it, I'll let you know! I can tell you that we're leaving the "Silent" titles behind to avoid confusion as the series continues. (My publisher was concerned that after three titles it might be tricky for readers to fit in which books comes where in the series.) So we're off to a new set of titles, which will also be linked together, and I am quite smitten with them!


And Karen wanted to know if there was a specific end planned to the series or is it open-ended. At present, the series is open-ended. So long as my publisher is happy to print them and readers are happy to buy them, I am happy to write them!

In which it's de-lurk day!

Lately I've run into loads of people who mention that they read the blog, but they've never commented. Well, today is the day! Every so often I try to coax the lurkers to leave a quick comment. I love to hear from folks who hang out here, both regular commenters and those of you who are too busy or shy or disinclined to identify yourselves. So, in the interest of luring you out to play, I'm taking questions! Whatever you'd like to know about writing, my books, etc. Ask away, and I'll blog the answers over the next few days. (If you don't have a question, feel free just to wave "hi" or keep to yourself if you're in a bashful mood. And thanks for dropping by the blog!)

In which I almost gave up writing

because I think I would be very good at this. The story was posted yesterday on a messageboard I frequent, and let me just say that I think professional witch is a superb career opportunity. (I would actually prefer hermit, but those openings are few and far between.) And who wouldn't love to take a goat to work?

In which I was feeling crabbit

Isn't that a wonderful word? Scottish. It means grumpy, and I have made it a permanent addition to my vocabulary. I'm not crabbit for any particular reason beyond the dog--who thinks it's super cool to get up at 4:30 to go out--and the weather. Me and heat, not the best of pals. And since I firmly believe that happiness is a choice, I'm choosing to be happy. What turned my mood around? A wedding processional like no other. (You may have seen this couple on the Today show last week--here's the video in its entirety. Enjoy--and mazel tov to the happy couple!)

In which I am being frugal

I realized over this weekend that I am committed to QUITE a bit of traveling in 2010. I have one re-release and two new releases which will entail some travel, two conferences, and numerous trips planned with various members of my family--I really, really should have thought this through. But none of them are trips I'm willing to give up, so the only solution is to be mindful of expenses that aren't really necessary and use those funds to get me where I need to go. One solution--the home mani/pedi. I usually get a professional one so I'll look at my spiffiest when I travel for work, but there's no reason for me to head to the salon when I'm at home writing. Last night--bereft because the Tour de France is OVER *sniffle, sniffle*--I cracked open my new bottle of Revlon Steel-Her Heart. I know matte polishes are all the rage now, but I love the very shiny pewter finish. Since I never wear gold jewelry, it is the perfect neutral for me--goes with absolutely everything!

On a personal note, I spent the weekend with my cousin Lisa. Those of you who have been hanging out at the Blog A Go-Go will remember her from my trip to Houston last year when she was receiving a bone marrow transplant. I am SO happy to tell you she is cancer-free and looks fabulous! It was wonderful to spend time with her playing tourist in my own town, although the heat has finally settled in after a very mild June. (We're in our 90-degree-days-with-stormy-evenings phase of the summer.) Anyway, we are incredibly grateful to the anonymous marrow donor in New Zealand who made the rest of her life possible.

In which I'm pondering complications

I make my own life more difficult than it needs to be, of this I am certain. I do try very hard to simplify, to streamline, to cast off stress and woe. But I'm painfully aware of the fact that sometimes I get in the way of my own happiness. I recently ran across a quote from Lisa Rinna's psychic--don't judge--that I keep coming back to: You have to stop thinking that your life has to be a struggle. You don't need to struggle, that is your idea. Just open yourself, treat every day like it's new, and start it with no preconceived notions. It doesn't have to be hard to be good.

In which you might be expecting something patriotic

And I will oblige. In light of recent events abroad, it seems that these words--taken from our Declaration of Independence--are just as appropriate and just as timeless as they were in the eighteenth century. Perhaps more so. So, amidst the apple pie and the sparklers and the waving flags, here's a reminder of what it's all about:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Happy Fourth, y'all!

In which I made the Hall of Fame!

The Apron Hall of Fame, that is--at horrorhomemakers.com. Please notice I am picking poisonous mushrooms in an evening gown with opera gloves. Because writing is both a glamorous and dangerous occupation...

In which I offer a reminder

Yesterday I did something I do not like to do--I went to the dermatologist for my annual mole patrol. I don't like it because, honestly--who does? But it was over in less than an hour and I have a very thorough and lovely dermie who checked me out and said I'm good for another year. Have you had your full screening yet? I'm not going to squick you out with pictures of melanomas or horror stories of people who were killed by a single rogue freckle gone bad, but IT HAPPENS. Get yourself checked!

In which we like verification

Ever wonder if the celebrity you friended on Facebook or follow on Twitter is the real deal? Valebrity knows! Well, I think they know--I haven't actually verified Valebrity. But they SEEM to know, and that's helpful, no? The ever-knowledgeable Kimmy Darling (I really, REALLY wish that was her actual surname, like the family in Peter Pan...) shared this link a bit ago and I just now remembered to pass it along.

In puppy news, the monstrous little scamps have DOUBLED their size since we got them, and in two weeks, when they get their last vaccines, we can finally take them out properly! It's been so difficult to leave them behind when we go out. Sometimes we take them for rides or we coordinate errands so that one person always stays in the car with them while someone else takes care of getting the library books or the stamps, but it will be MUCH more fun when we can walk them like actual grown-up dogs.

And those of you who have been hanging around my little corner of the blogosphere know what July means to me--TOUR DE FRANCE! I am already buzzy, people, and it doesn't even begin until July 4. I cannot wait to see the start in Monaco! Luckily, my July travel will coincide with some flat stages between the mountains, so I won't miss too much of the good stuff, and the day after I get back is a rest day which means LOADS of tivo to catch up on what I missed. Lance Armstrong is in, Tom Boonen is out--it's already shaping up to be a hellaciously good Tour. (Edited to add: I have nothing against Tom Boonen personally except it would be very nice if he stopped testing positive for things for which he ought not to be testing positive. I just meant there's lots to talk about this year.)

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 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 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 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 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 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 feeling bereft

Just sent the book out--finally! The Book That Would Not Die has been dispatched to my agent and editor, and no, it is not quite finished yet. There are still the final tweaks and polishes from the editing process, but the hardest part is behind me. (I HOPE.) Anyway, there's always a letdown when the book flies from the outbox on the computer, and I am distracting myself by loading up on research books for the next Julia Grey book--which I'm starting work on about NOW. I am hugely excited about the plot, and I expect it to be the best of the series BY FAR. I had one of my bathtub epiphanies the other night and the entire plot fell into place, which makes me extremely happy. Starting with the plot and most of the characters nailed down makes research just fun. I'm also setting the book in a country I've never used before--never even visited--so I will have to do a bit more research than usual for a Julia Grey book. I made up the setting in SITS, and SOTM required a quick trip to Yorkshire. Unfortunately, I can't do that with this coming book for a variety of reasons, so the research will have to suffice. (I find immersion is the best alternative to travel. Cookbooks, memoirs, armchair travel, social history, documentaries, music--I use it all.)

On a completely unrelated note, tomorrow is May Day, the ancient pagan holiday of Beltane, a day for maypoles and bonfires! I think we'll mark the beginning of this most gorgeous of months with a fire in the firepit and a completely non-traditional version of May wine. (It's also customary to surprise the unsuspecting with a nosegay of flowers hung at their door. You're supposed to ring the bell and run away, and leaving flowers behind is much nicer than the usual alternative flaming bag of poo, isn't it?) Happy May Day!

In which I am devastated to have missed an opportunity

The bathroom in the Hermitage Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee, has been voted the best restroom in the US, and I for one am shattered by it. I lunched there a few years ago on a book tour--my media escort's idea--and it was divine. I had salmon with a truffle foam, and let me tell you, foams are pretentious and silly and DELICIOUS. A foam is the merest breath of an experience, dissolving on the tongue before you can even swallow, and it leaves behind the essence of the ingredient. It's ethereal and ephemeral, and it would be extremely annoying to have more than a spoonful of foam on a plate, but a small dollop is lovely. I had no idea at the time that the men's room was so legendary, although I did notice an awful lot of gentlemen making use of it. (The lunchtime crowd at the Hermitage runs heavy to the legislators and government officials, I was told.) Now I am deeply regretting the fact that I didn't get to see it for myself to compare it to my favorite ladies' room--at the Majestic theatre in San Antonio. The Majestic bathroom is so lovely, there have even been weddings held in the anteroom. Wonder if the Hermitage can say the same?

In which I am so far behind I am about to come around again

Seriously, there is a strange Mobius effect going on right now where I am so far behind on so much that I suspect it will all come around again and I will be completely caught up. (Yes, I know there is supposed to be an umlaut over the "o" in Mobius, but if I go look up how to insert an umlaut on blogger, I will fall even MORE behind, and honestly, nobody wants that.) My e-mail inbox is now into multiple pages of unanswered mail, and we will not speak of the gajillion other things I need to get done. At this point I'm just jotting things onto to-do lists in my iphone and never reading them again. I have one titled "Spring Cleaning" with notes to myself about relining the linen closet with fresh fabric and purging the photos on my hard drive and organizing the ones I keep. These are things that are NEVER going to happen. They should, but they won't. Thursday is my deadline for The Book That Would Not Die (catchy, don't you think?) and I have one last killer proofread to do before I send it off. Once that's done, I can start on the list of Crap I Should Have Done in April, and bring a semblance of order to my little corner of the world just in time for the End of School Goat-Roping and Extravaganza--the four week push in which every conceivable concert, program, project, and ceremony must be concluded, parental attendance falling somewhere between mandatory and completely essential. Just thinking about it makes me want to go lie down with a cool cloth on my head and a glass of something fruity. (I bought sangria in a box this weekend. From Target. If I had standards, believe me, they are LONG gone.)

But it occurs to me that I may have a solution to my woes. Legend has it that Napoleon never answered his correspondence immediately; in fact, he didn't even read it immediately. All written correspondence was left on his desk for three weeks before he opened it. His reasoning was that if it was really important, someone would let him know by courier, and if it wasn't important, someone else would probably have handled it in the meantime. Apparently, it really boosted his productivity. And I figure if it can work for someone waging epic land wars in Europe, surely it can work for me.

In which Penelope Cruz is my new guru

This entry was first posted on the Blog A Go-Go on December 27, 2007.

Seriously. I mentioned that while in Houston, I got to loll around at the Hotel Zaza reading the latest Vogue. Penelope Cruz was on the cover, and there was a feature pictorial of her in the MOST sumptuous ballgowns by Balenciaga and Marchesa. Honestly, I would be buried in ANY of them, and I'm not even planning on being buried at all. (The pictorial also featured a bullfighter, and let me just say, animal cruelty charges aside, WOW. That matador gear is alarmingly attractive when it's half off. Who knew?) But the part that impressed me the most was not La Cruz's obvious beauty, it was this quote: You cannot live your life looking at yourself from someone else's point of view. Genius.

And difficult. This is an issue I've struggled with a LOT over the last year in particular. People feel very free to offer opinions--sometimes critical ones--and the internet provides a very cozy place for anonymity. There are those who could never do what I do, but who feel free to dismiss it with a scornful word or a wave of the hand. These are people I do not understand, nor do I wish to. I think any job, done with integrity and creativity and thoughtfulness, is worthy of respect. (I suspect that the people who are most dismissive and vicious about other people's work are deeply dissatisfied with their own, but I could be wrong. Amateur psychology is a thorny place to wander.)

In any event, I believe Penelope is right. We are so busy worrying about how other people see us, that we forget to see ourselves as we really are. After all, anyone else's perception of us is filtered through the lenses of their experience. What they see is perhaps not what we really ARE. And it's no use trying to GUESS how other people see us because it's hopeless at best. We don't hear the inflection of our own voices, see our own expressions. The most we can hope for is authenticity, an elusive and difficult quality to master. We have to know ourselves before we can show ourselves. And if anyone objects to that, we will remind ourselves that their point of view is simply that: a single point in a very big world.

In which we try to get Blogger to finally publish today's blog...

So yesterday I headed to a pleasant little regional bank here to open all new accounts with an eye to leaving Bank of America. Why, you ask? Because last week we got the same letter so many others got which essentially said, "Hey, customer--We know you pay your bill on time and never exceed your limit, but we are DOUBLING your interest rate because we don't give a tiny rat's ass if you stay with us because we are JUST THAT BIG." (The husband even phoned them to see if they were willing to budge at all. Nope.) So, as a matter of principle, we are moving our accounts to a regional bank that--GASP!--actually wants our business. It is going to be a few weeks before we can finally close the accounts with BofA, but it will be a happy day when we do. I honestly do not understand the thinking behind this move on their part. (Beyond the obvious thought of "Hey, let's screw some people over to make money!") Do they really think everybody is just going to roll over for this? Because frankly, that dog won't hunt. Every penny my husband and I made together last year went through that bank at some point, an asset on their books, and it gives me TREMENDOUS pleasure to think that after May, they will never see another one.

Another loose end that got tied up this week is my immunities. I visited my chic Belgian nurse-practitioner for my physical and discovered my tetanus was not technically up to date. When I agreed to a booster, she explained to me that because of the falling immunization rates, pertussis is now enjoying a SERIOUS upswing, and that people my age are very likely not protected from our childhood vaccinations. A single booster will correct this, so if--like me--you had no clue that whooping cough was floating around out there and that we're not as protected as we thought, you might want to check with your doctor. In my case, a quick DPT booster caught me up. And I got a sticker.

In which I wonder about myself

No, really. We have a running joke in my family that I'm not that bright. Don't get me wrong, on paper I'm a pretty smart cookie. But occasionally, I get such an obsessive case of book-brain that I find it hard to focus on my actual life. Take Tuesday. I showed up at the doctor's office to get blood drawn for my physical. I had fasted, and without my morning cup of tea, I'm fuzzier than usual. I gave the receptionist my insurance card, which she quickly pointed out wasn't mine. It was my daughter's. Now, I managed to convince her that the pediatrician listed as the primary isn't actually my doctor and assured her I have insurance coverage and would be happy to find the card at home and bring it by later in the day if they would just TAKE MY BLOOD ALREADY and let me get something to eat. Kindly, she waved me back to the chick with the needles and I got out of there to get my oatmeal on. And I made it all the way home before I realized my insurance card had been in my wallet the whole time. Honestly.

And then, I just started reading Green as a Thistle, the eco-blog that chronicles a journalist's attempt to do one new green thing every day for a year. I got partway through the first April in her archive when I found her entry about setting her dishwasher to air dry instead of heat dry. I got curious enough to get up and look at my own dishwasher, and I have to ask, how long has that been there? Seriously--how did I not actually SEE this button in the five years I've had this dishwasher? And what else am I missing?! (This is one of the worst episodes of book-brain I've ever had. I suspect when this set of revisions is turned in, I will just go fetal under the couch. Send tequila and truffles.)

In which I wonder about the Shroud of Turin

So Monday night I tucked myself into bed at an early hour and turned on the Discovery Channel. Did you know the Shroud of Turin was created by Leonardo da Vinci? That's the theory behind the latest documentary, and it made for some compelling viewing, let me tell you. I remember the fuss when it was determined twenty-odd years ago that the cloth dated to the 13th or 14th century, but no earlier, and apparently folks have been spending a lot of time since then trying to figure out precisely HOW it was made and by whom. One forensic pathologist pointed out that it could never have been wrapped around an actual head because the globe effect would cause the resulting image to be hugely distorted. (That was one of those moments when you facepalm and say "Dur. Why didn't I think of that?") Anyway, one intrepid researcher managed to duplicate the image beautifully by way of a camera obscura, meaning that the Shroud of Turin is quite likely the world's oldest photographic image. It doesn't carry quite the same cachet as if it were the actual burial cloth of Christ, but I still think it's pretty interesting.

But then things drifted a bit into wishful thinking territory with the hypothesis that Leonardo himself was responsible for the creation of the shroud. A link between the painter and the family that owned the shroud is the strongest evidence, with a bit of support because of Leonardo's work with cadavers and optics, as well as his willingness to thumb his nose a bit at the church. Still, it made for rather good TV, and is well worth catching when they re-run it. And since they didn't mention in the documentary, I feel compelled to ask, does the church still exhibit it as a holy relic? Or is it squirreled away somewhere?

In which I'm watching too many musicals

The girlchild has a fondness for musical theatre and we watch a lot of musicals in our house. A LOT. I noticed that most of the musicals we've been watching feature a corset number--a song in which one or more girls dances around in their room in a corset, singing about something that has very little to do with their underwear. And yet underwear abound, really for no good reason. It's gotten to the point where I've begun a list of "corset musicals"--Jekyll & Hyde, Oklahoma, Paint Your Wagon, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Phantom of the Opera. (I'm not including Moulin Rouge because I'm limiting this to stage musicals that became films.) The husband's theory is that the corset number was introduced for the titillation factor, and I'm sure he's correct. And honestly, dancing in your underwear and singing about life isn't any stranger than gang warfare set to a kicky tune complete with fan kicks and jazz hands.

And a HUGE thank you to the readers who came out on Saturday for the signing in Williamsburg! It was so much fun to see all of you, and I am still amazed at how far some of you came. (Extra big thanks to the charming Lara from Australia and the gracious pair from Mobile and Elizabeth in the beautiful red dress, as well as all the fabulous local folks!) It was a wonderful signing--we even ran out of books!