There is a little of me in every heroine I write. Sometimes it’s a bit of who I want to be, and sometimes it’s a bit of who I am already.

This week, I’m writing a heroine who is a quick thinker, amazingly gifted in languages, a conservative dresser with no patience for female furbelows, and is a bit of a klutz. Guess which part of this heroine is based on one of my own personal traits?

That’s right; the klutz part.

Here’s the honorary Klutz Badge. I’m one of those people who can fall up the stairs as well as down. I’ve slipped in water and put my foot through a fish tank, stumbled down the aisle at my own wedding, fell into a birthday cake and caught my shirt on fire, ended up on my arse with a nacho on my head in front of a crowd of 3,000 at a high school football game, had toilet paper on my shoe at my first job interview …

And these are just the highlights.

So tell me . . . are you a klutz, too? Or are you one of those annoyingly graceful creatures who seem to float instead of walk? What personal trait do you have that would make an interesting addition to a romance heroine’s character? Better yet, what special flaw do you possess that might make another reader think, “Oh, I’m SO like that!”

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 Please join us in welcoming our guest Goddess, NYT best-selling author CARLY PHILLIPS!  She’s here this Friday, 3/30!

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I had a birthday recently and got the usual gift cards to major department stores. I thought, cool, I’ll go get me some new spring togs. I am tired of wearing flip-flops and Tshirts and old cut-offs everyday—I want to look like someone who has a book coming out (April 17:The Perils of Pursuing a Prince. Just sayin’).

But in one shopping trip I remembered why I wear flip-flops and Tshirts and old cut-offs everyday.There is no fash for women over thirty to get on! I went to a high-end department store (Nordstrom’s) and was dismayed to find that the shorts I had hoped to purchase were way too short for these thighs. No thanks; I might as well walk around the house in my bathing suit.

Spring dresses? Forget it. Love the look on models, but do not love the look of my arms in spaghetti straps. Seriously—who can wear these dresses? And don’t talk to me about cute little sweater tops that hide the arms—I live in Texas. There are approximately two days out of the year we can wear sweaters without risking heat stroke.

But it’s the jeans that are killing me. Pencil leg? Are you kidding me? I have long legs—unlike the rest of you pipsqueaks, I am 5’9”, and there was a time in my life that me in a pair of pencil jeans would have made you all swoon with envy (it’s my fantasy, I can pretend what I want), but that was more years ago than I can count on my fingers and toes.

And the lo-ride jeans! That is the cruelest joke yet the fashion industry has played on women. Britney shouldn’t be wearing them and I definitely won’t wear them for fear of frightening pets and small children. But I don’t want to wear mom jeans! I wanna be hip and fabulous at my sort of indeterminate age!
I finally found a pair of Calvin Klein’s that almost reached the belly button (which interestingly, has seemed to migrate north in the last couple of years). They’re okay—they aren’t Mom jeans, but they aren’t very hip, either. Frankly, I am still miffed about the jeans and have discovered that photoshop is great therapy.

Got your fash on? What spring fashion can you do without? What is a must have? And do you know where a grown woman can get a decent pair of jeans that at least come within the vicinity of the belly button, or a pair of shorts that cover all the offending parts?

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I was working on my PhD in political science when I sold my first book, so I’m a very, VERY good critiquer. And oh, do I have opinions! I love to debate the issues, analyze policies, and take note of (as Monty Python would say) “the flaws inherent in the system.”

My sweetheart is my political opposite and he loves the process as much as I do. Every Sunday morning, we sleep in until nine-ish, then get up, make cinnamon rolls and coffee, and watch Meet The Press.

Of course, we have rules to go with our rolls or we wouldn’t be dating today. Our rules for watching Meet The Press are:

1) no talking during the program, no matter how snarky/funny you think your comment is
2) no raised voices either at each other, or at the talking heads on tv
3) both parties will have the same length of time to present their points after the program
4) any arguments must be resolved by a wrestling match to be held in the bedroom behind a locked door

Needless to say, I looooove Meet The Press. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ‘won’ that wrestling match, too. Heh!

In my next book, coming August 21st, TO SCOTLAND WITH LOVE, the hero and heroine have been friends since childhood and ride together through the park each morning. That becomes a very special time for them and eventually defines their relationship.

Do you and your sweetie have any special times you spend together? A date night? A movie night? Mornings cuddled under the sheets? Picnics in the park? Where and what do you and your sweetie do that defines your relationship?

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I had the crud last week. You know, one of those nasty virus/bug/colds that aren�t dangerous enough to send you to the hospital but awful enough to make you demand pampering from whomever is idiot enough to get near you.

Writers rarely depict the crud in books, but we do like a good illness or injury, as long as it�s sensational or romantic. Gunshot wounds and near drownings make for great drama, along with dire diseases like leukemia. Even a conk on the head can be useful in the much-maligned amnesia plot.

Plus, all those lovely dramatic illnesses and injuries lead to that ever-popular scene�the nursing-back-to-health of the hero by the heroine, or vice-versa. I have tons of favorite such scenes. There�s Judith McNaught�s Something Wonderful, where the heroine nearly dies and the hero is at her bedside every day. Or Linda Howard�s Diamond Bay where the heroine pulls the super-secret spy hero out of the water and gently tends to his badly broken body even before she knows if he�s a good guy.

I write those scenes in my own books, too. In my upcoming Beware a Scot�s Revenge, the hero and heroine have a near-consummation scene that begins with her smoothing healing ointment all over his … er … wounds. Yeah, that�s what she�s doing in the interior art�nursing his wounds. Honest to God. She�s not just rubbing up against his pecs, I swear.

Which leads me to the down side to writing such scenes�deciding how ill is too ill, how wounded is too wounded. You don�t want some guy making love to a semi-conscious woman�that would be unappealing. And probably illegal. You also have to strike a balance between disgusting (�Wait, dear, let me stitch up the gaping hole in your lip before you kiss me�) and sexy (�Wow, my poor wounded soldier has impressive biceps beneath that flesh wound I�m dabbing with alcohol�). My �ick� quotient is pretty low, but even I can be put off by a scene that strains credibility or grosses me out.

Yet even with all the drawbacks, I still love to read and write those nursing-back-to-health scenes. So what about you as a reader? Do you like them? Do you have any favorites? And just how high is your �ick� quotient, anyway?

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In last weekend’s newspaper insert, Parade magazine, an article about cell aging and regeneration by Dr. Henry S. Lodge contained some facts I found fascinating: Almost every cell in your body dies regularly and is replaced by new ones.

And I mean regularly. Dr. Lodge asserts that white blood cells live about ten days, muscle cells three months. “Think of it as getting a whole new body every three months,” he says.   

If that’s true, I want my body to come back as Angelina Jolie.

Okay, I know that’s not what the good doctor meant. The point of the article was that exercising, eating right, and lowering stress can bring new replacement cells back stronger and healthier than before. But I do all that stuff, and my body does not feel like new every three months. It feels – and looks – just like my old one, only a little more worn around the edges.

Why can’t I be Angelina? I whined when I finished reading the article. What I wouldn’t give to have her stunning beauty and her sex-goddess figure!

But then I came to my senses. I realized that even as gorgeous as she is, that poor woman has no privacy whatsoever, and I don’t think I could give up my privacy for any price, not even Brad.

And what would happen to my brain if I came back in her body? Would I lose all my memories and experiences and hard-earned skills? Sure, Angelina can play an assassin and a video game warrior to perfection, and she can lobby passionately – and admirably – for the world’s poorest children. But can she be me? A normal, everyday woman with flaws and imperfections and admirable qualities of my own? And would I really want to have to break in a new husband – even if the guy is considered a sex god in his own right?

Would I really want to live her life? I decided the answer is no; I like mine just the way it is, thank you. So I figured maybe I should try be satisfied with the old me and keep striving to make my three month regeneration cycle as youthful as possible… even though now and then, I still can’t help picturing myself in her body, complete with Brad.

Is any woman ever satisfied with her body? Are you? Do you want a new one? And if you could come back as someone new, who would it be?

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I’m an introvert. I love to be beside a crowd but not in one. So, you’d think this whole working-at-home-gig would be perfect for me.

Not so.

I find that working home, alone, to be quite . . . lonely. When I was at work, though I may not have been standing AT the water cooler, I was always close enough to listen in. That way, I was in the know, but not in the middle of things.

So, to stimulate my need for Water Cooler Chat, I gather my belongings and trot over to a local coffee shop. There, I find a table in the corner, spread my computer and papers about me, sit down and watch life go by.

I’ve been at this coffee shop so many times that I’m considered a regular, as are some of the others.

There’s Maria and her daughter, Maria, who come every morning and eat the same thing — a spinach croissant with cream cheese.

There’s Cindy and Mindy, the GNC gals from the mall who can’t seem to stop talking vitamins, even on their breaks.

There’s the R.O.M.E.O Club (Retired Old Men Eating Out) who served on the Board of Education for Orlando back in the 1950s and are some of the most charming and fun people to ever grace a coffee shop.

There’s Rhonda behind the counter who knows that I like anything with chocolate and will sometimes save something for me if I’m late.

And there’s Man With A Computer who comes at eleven, gets a cup of coffee (black, no cream), finds an empty table and huddles over his laptop as if afraid sometime might (heaven forbid!) speak to him.

I know them all. And love them all. Though they don’t know it, they are my office mates. I watch them saunter in, talk, explain, complain, express, and — sometimes — regress. They talk about life, love, work, disappointments, movies, UFOs, books, religion, hair, sex, pickles, their pets and children, and just about anything else you can think of. And as they talk, I sit and absorb it all, absurdly happy to witness the melee from the safety of my table in the corner.

What about you? What are you at work? Are you a solitary worker? A social butterfly? Do you like the social interactions of your peers, or would you prefer to savor your coffee and get your work done?

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