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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Somebody – I think it was W.C. Fields – said “never work with children or animals”. Since he was in the entertainment business, I’m not sure whether he was complaining over the fact that both are difficult to make do what you want, or that they were both way easier on the eyes than he was.

Anyway, I love putting both kids and animals in my books. I’ve even been told that I write children well. I find this both to be a great compliment and a source of amusement. I’m single, never married, and with no kids of my own. I added the “no man in my life” bit because at least one of my fellow goddesses believes that her husband should be included in the “children” category on our “Better Know a Goddess” page — so I don’t qualify as having kids around on either count.

So do I have a special, mysterious, Pied-Piperish connection to the miniature horde? Have I done special, lengthy studies into the state of “being a kid”ness? Nope. I think the answer can be found in what my mom and my aunt still call me from time to time – Peter Pan. Yes, I’m a big kid with action figures and a mortgage. My young nephews think I rock because I bought them annual passes to Disneyland. I drag them there all the time, because I like to go. Wonder, absurdity, imagination, being the center of your own universe – I’m not saying I buy into that last one, but I understand and appreciate those qualities.

Kids see through b.s. They say what’s on their minds, and they think literally. When the hero moans “Every time I kiss her I die,” the kid says “Really? Is she poison? You should probably stop kissing her, then.” Ah, yes, the little children are a great foil to the abstract, at times absurd, rituals we adults go through in the name of love. They’re great for romantic comedy, to bring a laugh into the middle of lovers’ own self-absorption.

Do you have a favorite child in movies or literature? A least favorite? What makes them great – or awful? Do you like kids in romances, or do you think they’re too distracting?

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My husband and I were supposed to go see Three Hundred. Supposed to. When we got to the theater, Music and Lyrics was playing at the same time and he wanted to go see that instead.

You read that right. My husband wanted to see a romantic comedy over a graphic novel action movie based on a historical battle. You can see why I love this man.

We both loved Music and Lyrics. It was light, sweet, funny, and it showed us a good time. I don’t ask much more of a movie than to be entertained and this one worked for both of us.

For me, the movie had special relevance as a writer of romantic novels. The crux of the hero’s journey in M&L is that the hero, Alex, has been living off his past success as an 80’s pop singer/songwriter. He produced one solo album, but it was a flop.

It was a flop because all of the songs on the album, all of his original songs, were written by formula. They were written for the precise purpose of being popular and because of that, they lacked heart and soul. Because they were empty of real emotion, they failed. And he failed.

Does this happen to writers as well as songwriters? Is it possible that writers can become so scared, so desperate to deliver what the customer wants, that they lose their voice and their vision for what they want to say?

Writing is a business and what sells is the only thing that matters. Right?

Yes, but…

The climax of Music and Lyrics came when Alex wrote a song on his own, from the heart, for the heroine. The song wasn’t great. It wasn’t poetry. But it was from the heart, everyone could hear that, and because of that, it was a great song. It was a love song.

And when a book is written from the heart, it has a special magic. A book can shine with a certain purity, a certain resonance. When it does, you can feel the emotion on every page and you’re carried along on the tide.

Or not?

Do you think a good book is the result of inspiration or skill or luck? All three? None of the above? What do your favorite books have in common?

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Okay, so if you tuned in two weeks ago, you know my computer died and I had techno-DT’s.  A week ago I got a new computer.  Yay, me!  Oh, wait.  I actually haven’t accomplished anything in the last week except getting it set up and getting all my old stuff moved over.    Oh, and I got my Rhapsody reinstalled so I can listen to Barry Manilow again.  I missed Barry.

What was the problem, you ask?  What took so long?  In a word, it was “NEW & IMPROVED.”  Okay, that’s technically three words, but you get my point.  Windows has a new operating system called Vista and EVERYTHING looks DIFFERENT.   So is it really new and improved?  Only time will tell, I guess.  Then I started to wonder, what IS new and improved, really?  You hear it in ads all the time – everything from dish detergent to cars.  But is the new dish detergent really any better than the old stuff?  Eh.  Every once in a great while something comes along that teeters humanity on its balance.  Post-it Notes ® comes to mind.  Now that is a ground-breaking, ground-shaking, can’t-live-without item.  I’m not kidding.   But are the neon pink ones any better than the standard yellow?   Most of the time I really can’t tell the difference in the old product and the “new & improved.”

Remade movies, however, are a different thing.  We watch a LOT of movies in our house as it’s my husband’s hobby.  Sometimes the remake is better, but sometimes it’s really not and the difference is usually very apparent.  One remake that was better was Sabrina.  Oh, Lord, give me that Harrison Ford.  I never really bought Bogart as Linus anyway.  One remake I didn’t like as well was You’ve Got Mail.  It’s a remake of In the Good Old Summertime with Van Johnson and Judy Garland (1949).  I love that old movie.     

Here’s one on which my former high school students and I vehemently disagreed:  Colin Firth’s Pride and Prejudice or Keira Knightly’s version?  Although Keira is lovely as Elizabeth, COLIN FIRTH RULES.  Are we perfectly clear on this fact?

So what have you tried that’s truly NEW & IMPROVED?  What movie remakes are better than the original?  Which ones make you scratch your head and say, “What were they thinking?” Which movies should never be remade?

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Yesterday I bought a new cell phone today. I chose it for two reasons. One: it’s pink. Two: it has something called V Cast which I thought sounded cool. I don’t really know what that is, but I figured I could download ring tones really easily. Right?

Wrong. I spent most of the day trying to figure out how to download my freaking ring tones. I finally stopped when my head hurt and my eyes started to bleed. If any of my kids were home, they’d figure it out in ten seconds. They’d give me that you’re so old look, grab the phone from me, and do that rapid-fire text stuff that I just can’t grasp.

So, after a long frustrating day, I decided to relax with a DVD I rented last week and already owe a huge fine on. I needed to de-stress, but I forgot that somehow I’d programed the language of my DVD player to be Italian. Which drives me crazy. Pause is inmovil and volume it volumen. I don’t know what menu juste hora means. I’ve tried to switch it to English, but I can’t. Oh, and I can’t get the closed captions to go away, but for some reason, my son can. And I know that he doesn’t understand Italian any more than I do.

Years ago I accepted that I am techno-challenged. I figured I must be missing the techno-gene. I’m okay with that. I figured I’m also missing the loves to cook and lives to clean house genes. I am surprisingly okay with that too.

Are you too techno challenged? Or maybe you’re missing the gene that gives you a burning desire to whip up an omelet or run a vacuum?

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I really am. Well, only an eighth, but that counts, right?

But that’s not why I love St. Patrick’s Day. It’s because I lived in New Orleans for 17 years, and the parades there weren’t like any others. First, the parade krewes actually threw things, like Irish-themed beads and doubloons . . . and cabbages, potatoes, carrots—

I kid you not. They threw the traditional ingredients for Irish stew (well, not the beef, because that would be gross). We crazy New Orleanians even took the stuff home and cooked it. I can already hear some of you (Claudia?) screeching, “Yuck!” I guess you had to be there.

The best part for me, however, was the walking clubs. They strutted by carrying kissing canes—paper or silk flowers stuffed into Styrofoam-encased canes. The male club members offered flowers to women they found attractive, and in exchange, the women gave them kisses. On the mouth. In the street. When I was in grad school, I used to LOVE collecting those flowers. Kiss an anonymous stranger? Why not? What fun!

Then I got older (and got married). Suddenly, kissing a middle-aged guy with beer-laced breath lost its appeal. Even showing off all the flowers I’d accumulated (tokens to one’s attractiveness—or brazenness) didn’t make up for having to kiss the drunken fellows weaving down the street.

My point is, isn’t it amazing the things you won’t do now that you’re older and wiser? I wonder if that’s why we don’t write about older women much in our books. Because once a woman’s over thirty, she’s just as likely to tell the rakehell to go take a flying leap as to let him seduce her.

So, what won’t YOU do anymore? What things did you do as a young ‘un that you’d never do now? And does anybody know if Cillian Murphy or Liam Neeson ever march in a St. Patrick’s Day walking club?

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Life is closing in around my edges.

I have a book due in a little over a month. I’m going to England for a 10 day trip in exactly a month. I’m not great at math, but even I can figure out that I have very few weeks left to finish this book. I should probably count down to my deadline in days, but that’s too scary.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that I’ve entered the Land Of “Huh?”

It’s that place where life as it’s lived in the Real World fades to gray and the World of the Book takes over. The Land of “Huh?”

Here’s what I’m talking about: a couple of days ago, my editor at Berkley called. I didn’t recognize her voice. I didn’t recognize her name for a full five seconds. The Land of Huh?

Yeah, it can get embarrassing.

I can’t sleep. I forget to eat. I don’t know what day it is. I forget where the kids are supposed to be. I’ll get in the car and hop on the freeway and forget where I was heading.

Huh?

I’m a bit dangerous right now, I can admit that, but I don’t think I’m alone in this. Even without a deadline, there are ways to enter the Land of “Huh?” Ways to get lost, to lose yourself in something so vivid and entertaining that you don’t want the Real World to intrude.

What is your passport into the World of Huh? What movie, book, song, or person can take you out of this world?

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