I asked London for her inspiration for WICKED ANGEL and A BEAUTIFUL STRANGER and she said that whenever she really wants to be inspired she checks out Colin Firth.

I can dig that.

Let’s see if you can dig it, too . . .

Oh yes. He’s delightful, delicious, delectable, and totally dig-able! Happy FROS, m’dears! (And remember, if you’re out this week, reprints of Julia London’s WICKED ANGEL and THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER are on shelves near you!!!)

29 Comments »

The other day I was watching a fascinating program about the building of the Transcontinental Railroad, and I realized I could happily ride trains everywhere … IF our rail system were better. I had glorious good times riding trains in Thailand on choir trips in my youth. But I swore off of them the last time I bought a ticket on Amtrak and they informed me when I arrived at the station that the train would be FIVE HOURS LATE. Huh. Clearly, nobody cares if the trains run on time anymore.

Now I’m writing a section of my WIP where my characters go by ship to Spain, and I’m reminded of how much I enjoyed traveling to Thailand at seven on board a cruise ship. Three weeks at sea of being entertained daily and stuffing my face–what’s not to like?

In my lifetime, I’ve traveled by car, plane, train, subway, ship, and horseback (I managed to miss the trip where my parents traveled by elephant). Given those choices, I prefer trains and ships. All those shipboard romances, ships passing in the night, movie scenes in sleeping cars … ah, the potential for romance and fun sex is endless.

So what’s YOUR favorite way to travel? What do you think is the most romantic mode of travel? Do you like love scenes that take place in carriages or cars or boats or do you prefer the more traditional bedroom? (Can you tell that I’m gearing up to write a love scene on a ship?)

50 Comments »

Remember in As Good As It Gets that Jack Nicholson’s character, by coincidence a romance writer, had to lock and unlock his door the same specific number of times, every time, before he could open it? The “experts” called it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – OCD. I call it being a romance writer.

I check my locks twice every night before I go to bed. Is this OCD? Or is it just very practical? I do live alone, after all. The fish can’t check the doors. I have no problem fondling fruit, unlike another unnamed goddess author, and I don’t care which side of the grocery store I hit first when shopping. However, I did notice this morning that I always put deodorant under my left pit first. I don’t know what that means. Oh, and when I get out of bed I always sit up and touch my toes first. I’m just stretching. I’m not checking to see if I’ve lost any toes overnight or anything. And I alphabetize my DVDs. Frequently.

Two months before a new book of mine comes out, I start checking the rankings at Amazon.com. At first it’s once a day, then twice, then with slowly increasing frequency until I reach the under-a-month-away deadline. Then I have to check it every hour – when I’m awake and at home, anyway. Amazon updates its rankings hourly, at 21 minutes after the hour. According to sources in the publishing industry, Amazon sales account for far less than 10% of my total sales. Still, it’s the only place I can go at will and check to see what’s going on.

Is that OCD? Or am I being diligent?

Do you have “habits”, things that you always do in the same way? In the same order? Or are you totally flexible about everything? How set in your ways do you have to be before someone can say you’re being obsessive?

74 Comments »

Every week, when Jack London does the grocery shopping, he comes home and complains about it. He hates it. The prices are too high. My eating habits (healthy) are a lot more expensive than his (junk, if I’d let him). I have learned to tune it out. I smile and nod and say things like “Really?” and “Oh my.” But I really don’t hear anything he says.

This weekend, on a lark, I accompanied Jack London to the grocery store. On the way there, we had to get gas. I drive a car that requires premium gas. We pulled into the station and knock me over with a feather, gas was $4.07 a gallon. My car holds 15 gallons. It was $60 to fill up my puny little tank! Seeing my shock, Jack London took the opportunity to say, “See??? See why I don’t want to drive my truck?”

At the grocery store, I got a bunch of oranges. “No,” he said. “Put some of those back.” I told him I couldn’t, I had already handled them. He told me I was not allowed to put anything else in the basket without talking to him first (and I think he almost meant it). But then he showed me why – he weighed the oranges, printed out the little tab, and for five oranges, we paid over $6 dollars. I think half of Austin heard his rumbling roar.

I’m a Pollyanna. I said, “They must have lost some of the crop this year, do you suppose?” Jack is a grinch. He said, “It’s the economy!” I realized by being a Pollyanna, I had done something I never, ever do – I gave him An Opening. Jack London proceeded to tell me about how it was all going down the tubes as we wandered the aisles and how we’re going to have to grow our own food.

Okay, enough about Jack – he listens to way too much talk radio. But seriously–$6 for five oranges? No wonder he’s so testy when he comes home from the grocery store. I was telling my father about it later, and he said proudly, “We don’t eat oranges! I’m not paying more than 50 cents for an orange!” I didn’t tell the old man that he might never eat an orange again.

96 Comments »

Having a new book out is always a mixed blessing. It’s a great accomplishment to see the book I’ve worked so hard to write finally hit the shelves. It’s always great when readers and reviewer love the book, but at the same time, I know that some readers and reviewers aren’t going to like it. While I really wish everyone loved every book I write, I know that isn’t realistic. Just like I know that some people who don’t like it are going to let me know, in detail, what offended them the most. And believe me, I always offend someone. I don’t mean too; it’s just my special gift.

Not Another Bad Date is my twelfth published novel, and over the years I’ve developed fairly thick armadillo hide. I mean after all, when my first book came out, some reviewers and readers called me the “faux Phillips” and wanted my head on a platter for writing contemporaries similar to their “beloved SEP.” Talk about baptism by fire. Now, I’ve met SEP. She’s a great person and a lovely woman with a fabulous talent. I love her books, but I don’t think I write like her. I think I write like me.

By my third book, some readers and reviewers were predicting the end of my career, saying I’d “jumped the shark” and was “phoning in my books.” This really left me more puzzled than angry. I mean, how do you jump the shark after three books, and is it even possible to phone in a book? If so, I’d like to know how to do it because writing them is really hard work. I’ve also been accused of “laughing all the way to the bank.” Not sure what this means since I have direct deposit and don’t drive to the bank, but I do think saying an author has jumped the shark, or is phoning in books, or is laughing all the way to the bank is crossing an ethical line. Those things are not part of a book review but are a personal attack on the author.

I’m also baffled by the readers who’ve read every book I’ve written and hated them all. Maybe I’m an exception, but I just don’t read books by authors whose work I hate. I just don’t like to put myself through that kind of pain and misery. Call me a wuss.

Do you think the anonymity of the internet has made us a less civil society? Is everything fair game? Have you had to develop armadillo hide?

63 Comments »

I’ve been reading the news from my most trustworthy news source – the Yahoo! homepage.  (Isn’t that where everyone gets their breaking news?)  Anyway, one of the stories was about this little girl in West Virginia who got stung by a SCORPION at Wal-Mart.  She was picking out a watermelon and apparently the scorpion was a stowaway from Mexico, from whence the melon had come.  She’s all right – it was only a little worse than a bee sting.  But a SCORPION in Wal-Mart?  Who would have thought of that? (Well, maybe Doglady would have, LOL.  I’m sure she sees a lot at Wal-Mart.) 

Anyway, the girl’s father said he initially didn’t believe his daughter when she said she’d been stung by a scorpion, until he saw the critter scurry under a box.  The scorpion was detained by Wal-Mart employees, so the Wal-Mart world can breathe easily tonight. 

I had to chuckle at the father’s initial disbelief.   I probably wouldn’t have believed my kids either.  My kids have told some real whoppers over the years, sometimes just to see if I’ll believe them.  DH is the worst of them all.  He’ll routinely throw out outrageous statements just to see my eyes roll, but every now and again he throws out one that’s both outrageous and true. 

Mr. R’s latest – he told me that the song “I Blame Canada” from the Southpark movie was nominated for an Oscar.  I laughed.  He said, “No, it’s true.”  I said, “You’re lying again.”  He got a gleam in his eye.  “Wanna bet?”  This always makes me wary as DH is not a betting man normally, but he’s an amazing bluffer.   Luckily I had my trusty laptop and before placing a bet, I googled the song “I Blame Canada” and he was telling the TRUTH!  I was amazed.

One more cute tale for the road.  DH’s father was a skilled practical joker – even as a child.  One morning he excitedly told his parents he’d seen a PENGUIN outside his window!  They chuckled indulgently.  This was the MD suburbs of DC, not Antartica, after all.  But the boy insisted and frowning, the parents sternly told him to stop lying!  This went on for a day – until the news reported that a penguin had escaped from a traveling show.  Until he died, my father-in-law collected all things penguin.

So have you ever disbelieved a story that turned out to be true?  Did you ever get in trouble for telling a whopper that wasn’t a lie?

44 Comments »

I live under a canopy of tall trees, and underneath that green roof fly birds. I love birds in their natural habitat. I want them to live in my garden. Because I want them to live here, I feed them, I provide them with water, and I give them ready-made houses.

In my yard I have many bird houses. Different birds like different sorts of houses (sort of like people) and I try to provide something for everyone, but even at that, some bird houses go empty for a few years, waiting for that right bird couple.

This year, the most remarkable, miraculous, delightful thing happened. A blue bird chose to nest in the white bird house just off my glassed in porch. You might find it hard to believe, but DH and I spent hours, days, weeks sitting in complete stillness, watching the blue birds check out that house. They’d squeeze in, look around, fly out. They’d do this for hours. We’d sit like statues, afraid that if we moved they be startled and decide our yard was too dangerous a location.

I’d call DH at work, “They went in! I think they’re going to stay!”

He’d call me at home, “Are they still there?”

At the end of the work day, we’d sit and stare at them, “There they are! Oh, my gosh! They’re going to nest right here!”

And they did. We’ve had that bird house for eight years and this is the first year we’ve had a blue bird family take up residence. Winning the lottery couldn’t feel this wonderful. The blue bird of happiness lives at my house. If that isn’t the American Dream, I don’t know what is.

Wars rage, economies rise and fall, children leave home, but blue birds fly and sing in the air around my house, streaks of pure blue dart through green branches under a bright yellow sun, and I’m filled with contentment.

On this Memorial Day, I’m thankful that I can pause and be happy for the simple joy of a blue bird in my backyard.

What are you happy about today?

52 Comments »