So there I was, in The Writer’s Bar. (*For those of you who may not know, all writers hang out in The Writer’s Bar. It’s a top-secret, writers-only place where we all meet, chat, talk about work, and generally share secret Writer Stuff.) It was a dark and stormy night (No, really, it was — Tropical Storm Faye was hangin’ overhead.) and I was nursing my second/third/who counts choclatini and feelin’ sorry for myself.

It had been a year since Will left me for Jane and I haven’t been the same since. Though I vowed not to miss his pointy little beard or his tiny paw-like feet, I did. Heart aching, I shoved my choclatini glass across the bar and snarled, “Gimme another!”

Bartender Suzanne Enoch (last week, Stephen King was our designated bartender, but he insisted on serving us while wearing a bloody mask with a hatchet sticking out of the forehead, so we asked him not to come back until he’d had a feeeew more therapy sessions) took my glass and leaned an elbow on the bar. “What’s wrong, Hawkins? Not still sad about Will, are you? You need to get over him.”

“I’ve tried! Just gimme a drink and leave me alone.”

She shrugged, her New York Times Bestseller Club Pin glittering in the neon light. “Fine, devil-woman, but I’m cutting you off with this one.” She made me another choclatini.

As she mixed her brew, the door opened, rain and wind swirling through the room. Immediately Claudia Dain (who was in the corner drawing clothing ensemble sketches for Sabrina Jeffries), Karen Rose (who was using cocktail napkins to explain to Nicole Jordan how you could (really) kill someone using a jam jar and two post-it notes), Rachel Gibson (who was nursing a Mojito while toying with a huge key fob with keys to all of the rooms in her new house), and Christian Bale (Ok, we know he doesn’t write, but would YOU throw Christian Bale out into the cold if he wandered into YOUR bar?) all turned to look and see who the new customer might be.

We all gaped. Not because it was Julia London (I mean, it IS a bar, so . . . yeah, there’s Julia London) but because with her was Nathan Grey, the Earl of Lindsey from THE BOOK OF SCANDAL. And let me tell you, he is the sexiest, the handsomest, the most–

Oh the heck with it. I’ll just SHOW you why we all stared:

Ok, everyone, I’m gettin’ a cramp trying to tell this story, so why don’t YOU tell Julia how YOU’D react if she brought Nathan Gray (aka Ioan Gruffudd) into YOUR private bar!

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We just finished a five-day vacation in Western North Carolina, part of which was spent at Lake Lure. Our hotel was a wonderful old Gilded Age type hotel (they used real keys) and just happened to be where Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey stayed while filming part of Dirty Dancing. We stayed in the Patrick Swayze Suite.

The irony is, we chose the suite because it was the only suite available in that area that had all the things we need for Nick. Though it was a lovely suite with a gorgeous view, the Patrick Swayze thing was incidental. Especially to me. You see, Dirty Dancing never really did it for me. I don’t know why. It was a perfectly likable movie, mind you, but I never saw it as the big icon others did.

So what about you? Loved Dirty Dancing or not? Are you a Swayze fan? Have you ever stayed anywhere that a famous person stayed, and did it thrill you? Would you pay more just for the chance of staying where a celebrity stayed, and if so, which celebrity?

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I live on God’s Little Acre. Deer, bunnies, squirrels, a fox or two, herons, hawks, and vultures live in my back yard. And in my front yard and side yard and on my driveway. I am surrounded. Moving here from the middle of Los Angeles, I at first was charmed by all this wild life. After nearly twenty years here, I know better. Wild life has its own agenda and it rarely coexists peacefully with mine.

To put it bluntly, wild animals eat stuff. My stuff. This means war.

That’s the backstory. Here’s the story as of today. A mommy deer and her tiny fawn had made my backyard and pond their hang-out. Free water? How could they resist? We’d let them drink (when we saw them) and then chase them off. We didn’t want them to get too comfortable because two deer quickly turn into ten.

This morning, while DH and I were enjoying our morning protein shakes, we spotted the fawn at the pond getting a nice long drink. The spots are still on this fawn and it’s about the size of a miniature poodle. The fawn drank and then wandered away aimlessly.

Mommy deer was nowhere to be seen.

This can only mean one thing: Mom is dead.

DH and I were horrified. We immediately sprang into action. On the way home from work, he’s going to pick up deer food. I’m going to buy a salt lick. We’re going to make sure the dog doesn’t bother this tiny, helpless deer. We’re going to discreetly take care of it until it can make it on its own. What else could we do? Bambi needs us.

Have you ever taken care of a baby animal? Are you a soft touch for the nearly helpless? Have you ever nursed a wild thing back from the brink?

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I was talking to my sister today and, as she hung up, she said, “Don’t even think about getting the last word. I’m the oldest so I ALWAYS get the last word.”

Now, we weren’t having an argument, or a tussle, or anything. It was a normal conversation. But that’s my sister. She always makes an impression and she’s not afraid to claim things, even things you’re willing to give her.

I’m a middle child, or “Monkey In The Middle.” In my family, there is an older monkey — my sister — for fun, we’ll call her “Orangutan,” my brother — who shall henceforth be known as “Gorilla,” and then there’s the youngest of us all, my adopted sister, who came into our lives when we were older and had already settled into our roles. I hate to leave her out, though, so we’ll call her “Pygmy Monkey.”

If you’ve never seen a pygmy monkey, you should google them. They’re adorable.

Though we all grew up in the same household, had the same parents, and followed the same rules, it’s funny how different we all are — Last Word Orangutan, Monkey in the Middle, the Funny Gorilla, and our Cute Pygmy. We approach everything differently; life, love, friendships, parenting. Frankly, if you met us and didn’t know we were related, you’d probably never guess it.

Over the years, I’ve read a bunch of articles and books that explain this difference and some of it seems to ring true. Here’s the best summary I’ve read so far:

First and Only Child

* Is only child for period of time; used to being center of attention. If only child; then used to and expects to be center of attention.
* Believes must gain and hold superiority over other playmates or children.
* Being right, controlling often important.
* May respond to birth of second child by feeling unloved and neglected.
* Strives to keep or regain parents’ attention through conformity. If this failed, chooses to misbehave.
* May develop competent, responsible behavior or become very discouraged.
* Sometime strives to protect and help others.
* Strives to please.

Second or Middle Child

* Never has parents’ undivided attention.
* Always has sibling ahead who’s more advanced.
* Acts as if in race, trying to catch up or overtake first child. If first child is “good,” second may become “bad.” Develops abilities first child doesn’t exhibit. If first child is successful, may feel uncertain of self and abilities.
* May be rebel.
* Often doesn’t like position.
* Feels “squeezed” if third child is born.
* May push down other siblings.

Youngest Child

* Behaves like only child.
* Feels every one bigger and more capable.
* Expects others to do things, make decisions, take responsibility.
* Feels smallest and weakest. May not be taken seriously.
* Becomes boss of family in getting service and own way.
* Develops feelings of inferiority or becomes “speeder” and overtakes older siblings.
* Remains “The Baby.” Places others in service.
* If youngest of three, often allies with oldest child against middle child.

Realizing this is just a summarization, do you agree? Would you add any characteristics? Change any? Or should I stop thinking so much, draw a hot bath, pour a glass of chilled wine, and dive into Julia London’s THE BOOK OF SCANDAL, which I purchased as part of my Hurricane Supply List?

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Well, I’m back from my trip to Brazil. As sometimes happens, it didn’t even remotely go the way I’d expected. I flew five hours from Los Angeles to Miami, only to discover that the 9pm flight to Rio de Janeiro had been delayed – to 7am the next morning. So fellow traveler Kathryn Caskie and I spent the night at the glorious Airport Regency hotel, without luggage, arriving back at the airport at 5am. At 9:30am we finally left the ground for our nine hour flight to Rio.

I should probably preface this story by saying that most authors I know are…quiet, reticent people who need a great deal of down and alone time to function properly. I’d just finished five days at RWA, followed by four days of flying, speaking, and book-touring with Teresa Medeiros. With only two days at home to repack, I was off on the road to Rio. And I got sick.

Nerves, flu, exhaustion – probably an intoxicating cocktail of all three – sent me collapsing into my hotel room. Here’s the view of Copacabana Beach off my balcony, by the way. By the next morning I knew I had to get home or I would end up in a hospital in Brazil. I booked my return flight, and together with Kathryn and our hosts managed to drag myself onto the tram ride up to the top of the Sugar Loaf, so at least I could say I saw something of Brazil before I left. The buzzards I saw up there seemed kind of ominous.

I left that night, and did at least get to see the Pleiades meteor shower from 38,000 feet, which was very cool. Oh, and the Miami airport had a giraffe statue advertising the zoo, so I took a picture to show my own tame giraffe (though I might have been delirious when I thought of doing that). Thankfully I’m good at sitting, which I did for the 17 hours or so it took to get home. I slept for 14 hours that night, got up for six, and then slept another 12 hours.

So that’s my trip. Have you experienced any travel disasters? Flight delays or cancellations? Did you see the meteor showers?

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Book of Scandal comes out today.  I am relieved and thankful and hopeful that it does well so I can keep writing and keep dreaming of hunky guys like this.

My FROS for Book of Scandal is the guy with the gun just below.  He’s a little dangerous, a little reckless, but above all, a well-dressed gentleman.  There is something about men parading about in gentility that really riles my blood.  Colin Firth, anyone?  I am always anxious to start another historical book just so I can wallow in their world again.

But lately, I have been thinking about another guy.  He is the antithesis of my English lord, because he works for a living, he’s dirty, and he’s a loner.  Beneath his gruff exterior, there is a gentleness about him.

Now don’t laugh, but I have an urge to write an historical western.  There aren’t many of them around anymore, and while I know RT is doing an article about their resurgence, I haven’t seen it.  I wonder what happened to them.  Isn’t the cowboy just as sexy as the English lord?

Would you read a historical western?  What do you think is the appeal of them, or what do you think detracts?  What other historical settings would you like to see?  And while you’re noodling, please enjoy the Book of Scandal Book Trailer in honor of today’s release!

And if you are in Alabama or nearby, I hope you will come by and meet me this weekend.  I’ll be in three cities signing the latest release.  Go here for the stores and times

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My dog died last Friday.

It came as a complete shock. He was fine. And then he was dead. He died in his sleep, at his favorite spot at the top of the stairs, staring down protectively at the front door, his front paw hanging off the top step.

I came out of my bedroom, stepped over his gigantic, 120 pound body, and walked down the stairs, calling him as I went, telling him it was time to go outside. He didn’t respond. I snapped my fingers and called his name again. Nothing. I felt my heart go cold. I walked back up the stairs and stared hard at him.

He wasn’t breathing. And just like that, the house felt dead. Cold. Lifeless.

Conan was a wonderful, amazing, loving dog. He was the best dog I ever had; he wouldn’t eat his dinner until I’d sung to him. If anyone else fed him, he’d nibble a bite and then wander off until I sang him to supper. His favorite game was “catching” the water from the hose. His favorite greeting was to nip the hem of my sleeve, brown eyes shining up at me.

I wandered through the house all weekend and the rooms felt so empty. I keep looking for him and he isn’t there.

It’s always like that, isn’t it? This isn’t the first dog I’ve lost.

Before Conan there was Aslan, our Newfoundland. He was the smartest dog I ever had. He should have been placed with an Advanced Family, someone who could match his intellect, but, poor boy, he got stuck with a Regular Family who could barely keep pace with him. This was a dog who could foil our invisible fence. No kidding. He really could. He knew where it was plugged in in the garage and would pull the plug, disabling the system. Really. Or he’d lay next to the wire and wait for the warning buzzer to run down the battery and then saunter over the line. He was Houdini with a lot more hair.

Aslan was the dog my kids grew up with, the dog who could hold a soccer ball in his mouth and run off with it. The dog who would chase my youngest, knock him down and hold him down on the grass with a paw to the small of his back so he could chew the rubber on the bottom of his shoe. A muffled voice from the dirt would say, “No, Aslan. No!” Aslan ignored him and kept chewing. That son spent half his life in the dirt with Aslan, as you can see from this photo. They were litter mates.

Aslan died ten years ago.

Before Aslan there was Shirley, our Belgian Shepherd. She was the dog who greeted each of my newborn children as they came home from the hospital. Shirley always knew I was pregnant before I did; she’d stick by my side until I left for the delivery room, following me from the refrigerator to the pantry to the kitchen table. She slept right next to my bed at night, and never even whined when I’d step on her by accident on all those millions of trips to the bathroom.

Shirley was the dog who taught my children how to treat a pet. She was patient and loving, very protective, welcoming these squawling newts into the pack, letting them pull her ears and climb into her bed. Shirley would run with the kids and their friends through the foothills of California, herding them into a bunch, all the parents at ease because Shirley was with them. One time a little girl fell and started crying and Shirley walked her back to her parents. She didn’t leave that little girl until the parents thanked her, then she raced back across the field to the other kids who might need her, herding, herding. The poor kids had no idea they were being kept in a tight circle, like little lambs.

Shirley was the dog who made us a family, even before DH and I had kids. Once we had kids…well, this photo says it all.

A man, his dog, and his boy.

Shirley has been gone for twenty years.

Saturday was my wedding anniversary. A sad day because Conan is so suddenly and permanently gone. But my husband and I were talking about the great dogs we’ve had, about one for every ten years of marriage. We’ve had dogs and cats from the very start, from our very first newlywed apartment to our empty nest house. We can’t imagine our lives without our pets.

But I can’t bear to think of another dog now. I still miss Conan. I don’t want to fill his space in my heart or in my home. Not just yet. Maybe never. Because I don’t want another dog. I want Conan.

So share your stories of animals loved and lost. Let’s laugh and cry together because I don’t want to cry alone anymore.

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