For Refreshment Only Sunday is proud to share Rachel Gibson’s inspiration for her hero, ex-pro football player, Zach Zemaitis, from her upcoming release (this coming Tuesday!) NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE!

I don’t know about you, but after seeing Rachel’s inspiration, I was inspired. Really inspired. Uber inspired. So inspired that I’ve decided that if I don’t get my hands on Zach– er, Rachel’s book asap, I might explode.

Fellow goddesses, here is ZACH from NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE!

Yeah, that’s right . . . Rachel Gibson’s inspiration was none other than hunk-o-man, David Beckham. And oh boy, is he inspiring!

If that’s not enough to inspire you, how about a little excerpt, too?
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FROM NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE:
Zach shoved the plate at her and one corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “I remember a lot of things about you, Adele.” With her hands full, she was unable to stop him as he reached for her sunglasses and pushed them to the top of her head. “I remember your eyes, turquoise except when they turn a deeper blue.”

He’d been the first man to tell her that her eyes got darker when she got turned on. She remembered they’d been in his truck the first time he’d said it. He’d been kissing her mouth and touching her through her clothes and she’d wanted to eat him up.

“So tell me, honey,” he said just above a whisper, “what’s got your beautiful eyes so sad?”
*****

Happy FROS, m’dears! And remember to think of this picture when you pick up Rachel’s newest book, NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE this coming Tuesday at a bookstore near you!

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Now that I’ve been writing for awhile (my first book was published in 1995), I’ve begun to come across a problem that I never expected to have. Well, not a problem, precisely. We’ll call it a challenge. And it’s about names. Heroes’ names, to be exact.

The following is a list of my heroes: Nicholas, James, Alexander, Jack, Quinlan, Rafe, Lucien, Sinclair, Greydon, Tristan, Michael, Robert, Valentine, Zachary, Charlemagne, Sebastian, and Rick. Oh, and Sullivan, Phineas, and Bram, coming up soon. Some of them have aristocratic titles: Sommesby, Everton, Dansbury, Warefield, Kilcairn, Althorpe, Wycliffe, Dare, St. Aubyn, Deverill, Melbourne, and Rawley. There are the last names and nicknames, too, but I won’t go into that.

The problem – er, challenge – is that with twenty-four books written, the list of non-wacky, not previously used by me, acceptable male hero names is becoming depleted. Frankly, “Charlemagne” was pushing it, though luckily everyone called him by his nickname of “Shay”. There are names, however, that a romance-novel hero simply can’t have. Cecil, for example.

I do have a few more ideas, but I’m not going to blog about them here. There are other writers about. And some of them are sneaky. But I can be sneaky, too.

I’m going to have a drawing. If you can list 1) a hero’s first name (last name would be nice, but it’s optional), 2) a name you would never give a hero, and 3) a nice suggestion for an aristocratic title, I may just use them in my upcoming series. Oh, and I will also randomly select an entry to receive advanced reader copies of my two new books, After the Kiss and Before the Scandal. Ready, set, NAME THAT HERO!

AND THE WINNER IS LISAK! CONGRATS, LISA, AND I’LL BE EMAILING YOU.

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Before I begin, let me state that I love art. I’ve been to most of the bigger museum — Tate, MOMA, Smithsonian, Louvre, British Museum, and a gazillion more. I love museums because I love art.

Well . . . MOST art.

Last week, I read an article in The Mirror about the Turner Prize for Modern Art. The headline really grabbed me. Let’s see what you think . . .

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Mannequin on toilet bids for top art prize
By Paul Majendie, LONDON (Reuters) 13/05/2008
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Yeah, that’s right. A MANNEQUIN on a TOILET is bidding for the top prize. Better yet, this mannequin is ’squatting on a toilet with bits of dried porridge at her feet.’ At which time my “Huh?” turned into a “HUH?”

The article goes on to state that one year, the winner of this ‘prestigious art award’ was Martin Creed, whose exhibit consisted of an empty room containing a light that switched on and off. Madonna was the show’s MC, which was broadcast live. She was so shocked this guy won that she swore.

I think it’d take a lot to shock Madonna.

The article then asks the real question – how do we know that this award is actually going to art that is QUALITY art, as opposed to — shall we say ‘SUCKY’ art?

“This is art made by people for people,” the event organizer responds. “What is vital about the Turner prize is that it creates informed debate about art. People are not frightened to argue about its merits and de-merits.”

A friend of mine is an artist and I explained to him that, to me, art is about beauty. Not always traditional beauty, but beauty of some sort. He seemed surprised I had such a limited view. For him, art is about emotion, and the more emotion — good or bad — the stronger the piece.

I’ve been grappling with that. Sometimes I think I can almost see what he means. Then I read about a mannequin on a toilet winning a $50,000 prize and my inner artistic eye clenches closed and refuses to open.

So tell me . . . what sort of art do you like? How do you define what’s art and what’s just . . . crap? Have you ever viewed a work of art that you simply did not like, or questioned how it deserved the title of ‘art’? And do you think I’m going to Cultural Hell for even asking?

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Last night my oldest daughter brought home the cap and gown she’ll wear when she graduates high school in less than two weeks.  Two words:  waterproof mascara.

I will cry.  I will outright sob.  She knows this and will most likely not be embarrassed, not too much anyway.   I know DH will cry and it will be worse for him – he’ll be up on the stage as he’s a teacher in her school. 

I don’t remember crying at my own high school graduation.   I’m sure my mother did.  I do remember my cap and gown were white and all the girls decided we’d wear white beneath it.  My dress was this frothy white lacy dress that I wore again the night I got engaged about a year later (on my 19th birthday).   I remember they misspelled my last name in the program.  I remember my favorite chemistry teacher, Doc H, standing in the tunnel as we exited University of MD’s Cole Field House, new graduates.  (Most high schools held grad ceremonies in Cole Field House and we entered and exited through the tunnel the athletes used.)  Doc H’s face was beaming.  He was so proud of us.

I remember my dad took off the whole day from work, planning to go out to lunch afterwards.  He didn’t tell me this ahead of time – and I’d already made plans.  Looking back, I probably should have gone to lunch with my dad.  But, he waved me along and I went to lunch with my boyfriend (now DH), my best friend (a regular on this blog) and one of our friends.  We went to the Greek place on University of MD’s campus for gyros.  I remember thinking, “I’ll eat here often when I come here next year.”  Then I tasted the gyros and thought, “I think when I go to college here next year, I’ll eat at the burger place instead.”  I never was one much for trying new foods, LOL.   The Greek place is still there.  DH took me and the kids there when we were back in MD a few years ago.  He says the gyros were as good as ever.  I got a burger from the place next door, ha!

I can’t remember who spoke at my high school graduation, only vaguely recall the valedictorian (it wasn’t me).  I do remember that four years later my sister graduated, also at Cole Field House, and Kathy Lee Gifford spoke (she wasn’t Gifford then, I think she was still Johnson).   I remember there was no air conditioning the day we graduated and we were so hot.  And I remember the incredible euphoria when I tossed that cap into the air!  I still have my cap somewhere, packed away in my parents’ attic.

What do you remember about your high school graduation?  What did you wear?  Did anybody famous speak?  Were you happy, sad?  Proud of yourself?  Relieved as all get-out just to get out?  Any interesting stories to tell?

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I was at a little gathering this weekend with some friends and one of them remarked on my weight loss.  I thanked her. She asked how much weight I had lost, and I told her.  (28 pounds! Two more to go, and I have a bit of a cushion).

She said, “Oh, that’s great. So how much do you weigh?”

I laughed.

She laughed.  And said, “So how much?”

I was flabbergasted. Stunned. Completely taken aback. I said, “More than enough, trust me.” She gave me an unhappy look, as if I were somehow being the goon, then reported her weight, as if I wanted to know!

As a point of reference, Jack London would never ask me how much I weigh—he likes to guess, but he knows that There Are Rules, and one of them is, Never Ask Your Wife How Much She Weighs. I mean, if HE knows the rule, my friend should have known it.

Later I told another friend of mine about the convo, and she gasped with horror. She said, “Why didn’t she just go ahead and ask you how much money you made last year?” Funny thing is, many people have asked me that. For some reason, if you are a writer, some people feel free to ask you what you earn. I remember one time a man would not let go. He started giving me categories” 50 to 75 thousand? 75 to 100 thousand? More than 100,000? I finally told him I was dripping in money, so much so that I couldn’t even count it (which, given our discussion yesterday, you all know is true).

There Are (unwritten) Rules about what is proper social behavior, and asking weight and income is not proper, is it?  Personally, I’m not a fan of the age question, either, just because I am super vain and cannot face the inevitable.  But I will freely admit that might be a personal quirk.

So what are Your Rules? And what do you say to someone who violates Your Rules?  Have you ever in your life asked a friend how much she weighed?

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I was a good student. I liked all the subjects in school and they liked me. We got along. We understood each other. All except Math. I approached Math with an open mind and a willing heart; I was innocent and trusting. Math was not.

Math had it in for me from the start. Math was horrible, difficult, nasty, and incomprehensible. Math hated me and, after years of trying to get along, I returned the favor. All I wanted from Math was to escape it and I was sure I would when I took my very last class in school. No more Math, ever! I had escaped, not unscathed, but escaped!

I was such a naive fool.

Math followed me. It followed me into publishing, that World of Words where I could be happy and free and safe from Math.

There is no place safe from Math.

I get contracts that I have to read and the contracts have Math in them. It’s like the worst word problem ever. It’s all about the numbers: the royalty rates and the advances and the print run and the ship number and the returns. Foreign sales, audio rights, percentages: oh my! This is a Math problem that never ends. It goes on and on forever, as long as the book is in print.

My teachers were right. They said I had to learn Math because I would use it for the rest of my life. Use it? I’m not using it. I’ve never used it. I just try not to cry while it beats me up.

Which school subject did you hate? Is it still making your life miserable? Did you ever have a subject in school that you learned to love later? Do you love Math?

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