Author: Gina Wilkins

It is so tempting to get into a safe, comfortable rut. It’s easier not to take risks. Not to take a step that could lead to failure or disappointment. It’s scary out there beyond the limits of our sight.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I have several friends who are having to reinvent themselves and/or their careers recently. One who has embarked on an effort to lose weight and get healthy, rather than the bad habits she’d fallen comfortably into for several years. Several writer friends who have lost their publishers and/or agents and are having to put themselves out there again and again and risk rejection. Some who have been laid off from jobs and are now searching for new careers. Many people have mentioned to me that they’ve always wanted to write a book or a song or learn to play an instrument or go back to school or some other goal, but fear of failure has held them back.

My second daughter will graduate from medical school in May and is now in the process of pursuing residency programs. She has to rank her top choices (a hard enough decision on its own) and then wait until mid March to find out where she and her husband will live for the next five years or so while she finishes her medical training and he obtains a graduate degree. It’s a scary time for them. My older daughter moved 2300 miles away last year, to a city she’d visited only two brief times, where she knew no one, to accept a post doctoral research position. These three young people grew up in central Arkansas and have never lived far from their families. Yet they are stepping out of that comfort zone to pursue their ultimate career goals, and I’m proud of them all for having the courage to do so.

Every day when I open the paper or turn on the TV news, I read about more job layoffs. Thousands at a time. My heart goes out to those who are forced to make those big changes through no choice of their own. It must be terrifying, especially for those who’d been in the jobs for a long time and expected to retire there.

My grandfather used to tell me that when a door closed, a window always opened. I have lived on that philosophy all my life, and I’ve found it to be more than a trite saying. It’s absolutely true. My family got into the habit of looking for the open window whenever a door closed. When the kids ran for an office or tried out for a squad or a part in a play or whatever and didn’t get it, we redirected their efforts immediately toward a new goal. Within a very short time, every single time, we were able to point out something good that had happened because of that initial failure. A new activity they loved, a greater accomplishment on their resumes, new friends met along the alternate path.

Makes it sound easy, doesn’t it? It isn’t. The window may open, but we still have to make the effort to climb through it. Sometimes its a steep and scary climb. But for my family, at least, we’ve found that it’s always worth the risk.

I’m as guilty as anyone of settling into my ruts and routines. I don’t like to be disappointed and I have an absolute phobia about being publicly embarrassed. I take criticism too hard — not a good trait for someone in my line of work! So, I rarely enter writing contests and I almost never read my reviews, though I work very hard on my books and I’m ultimately proud of each of them. Still, I try to take risks. To attempt something new with each story. To take on new challenges. For the first time in more than twenty years, I’m working on a book that isn’t already sold. It’s not a category romance, which is what I’ve been writing so happily for so long, and which I intend to continue writing because I enjoy them. There is no guarantee that this new book — a suspense story with a paranormal undercurrent — will find a home, or that it will be well received if it does. And yet … I’m very excited about the project. I’m enjoying the challenge of writing in a new style, a different genre, even if it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted, writing-wise. Without challenges, without difficult goals, it’s too easy to grow dull and stale. Comfortable does not always equal fulfilled. I believe it will do well — I wouldn’t even try it if I didn’t have that confidence — but I’m aware of the chances of disappointment. Still, it’s worth the risks because I’m enjoying the journey so much.

To those for whom a door has recently closed, I hope you find your open window. Is there a challenge you’ve always wanted to pursue, a dream that has always seemed just out of your reach? Maybe now is the time to take that first step. And by the way, as my kids will tell you, I’m a big believer in having a Plan B. And a Plan C. They’re all windows that could lead to rewards you never expected.

Enough waxing philosophical today. Because it’s a gloomy February day here, and in many other places, here’s a bright photo to remind you that sunny, warm days are still ahead. Enjoy.

Warning: gruesome photo to follow

Two years ago last week, I bought my first laptop computer, a Sony Vaio. I wasn’t sure whether I’d really get my money’s worth from the purchase, because I don’t travel a lot and wasn’t sure I needed the portability. Still, we needed a second computer in the home, and our desktop was only a couple years old, so I bought the laptop.

I haven’t turned it off since.

Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but not by much. I’ve gotten into the habit of turning it on when I get up in the morning and I don’t usually turn it off again until I go to bed that night. For an embarrassing amount of that time, the computer is in my lap.

It’s nice to be able to sit in my easy chair and work or read forums or IM my daughter. I enjoy the sidebar feature, which I don’t have on the desktop, so I can glance at my computer and see the time, date and temperature. A google search bar is always open on the sidebar for instant answers to whatever question pops into my head. I watch only a few television shows with undivided attention; usually I read or work crossword puzzles or do other things in the evenings even if the TV is on in front of me. Since I got the computer, it is usually my distraction of choice when TV gets boring (as it so often is for me). I didn’t have to go into the office or sit at my desk, and the laptop is always right at hand, open and ready. Calling me to come work or play.

I knew I’d been spending too much time on the computer lately. I’ve been having trouble with my shoulders, to the point that I can hardly reach behind me. I don’t read as much as I once did, falling behind on my to-be-read pile. I’ve gotten a lot of writing done, but that’s because I seem to be working all the time. I used to go into the office during the days, then move to the family room and away from the computer in the evenings and on weekends. My last child started college a year and a half ago, so now my evenings are more free and the laptop is so close and accessible. With the computer right there, I start feeling guilty when I’m not working.

Even knowing how much time I spent on the computer, I don’t think I fully understood how addicted I was until last week when my laptop stopped working. Apparently, I’ve completely worn out the keyboard. After spending a couple of days with the repair-or-replace debate, I decided to order a new keyboard. I placed the order this morning, and was told it would be a week to ten days before it arrives.

A week to ten days. Without my precioussss …

I’ve heard about the relatively new phenomenon of people becoming addicted to their iPhones and Blackberries. Not owning either, and never having sent a text message, I didn’t quite get that. I’ve fussed at my son for spending entirely too much time on his video games, playing on-line until wee hours of the morning. Now I understand. Being without my laptop has made me nervous and restless and cranky. Classic withdrawal symptoms. I’m realizing how much time I’ve really spent on the computer. What I’ve been doing to my body. How many hours I’ve spent working, risking the dreaded writers’ burn-out.

I have most of my files backed up on an external hard drive (thank goodness), but I forgot to back up the last scene I wrote before the break-down (maybe 4 pages, but I want them Now!). My phone numbers and addresses are all in that computer. All my favorite websites are bookmarked in there. My music is in there (and I need my music). Has it really gotten to the point where a large portion of my life exists within that 15.4 inch computer?

For the next week to ten days, I’ll be working on the slow, cranky old desktop. I can’t carry it into the den with me. I can’t sit at it while I’m watching House or Lost or Burn Notice, because I don’t want to watch my favorite shows on the ten-year-old, 13″ office TV. I’ll have to work during the days and take the evenings off, like “normal” people. Maybe my shoulders will get better. Maybe I’ll spend more time moving around, exercising, and less time in my chair. Maybe I’ll catch up on my reading.

Can I break the addiction during the next week? Will I go back to the same bad habits when the laptop is repaired? I don’t know. I tell myself I’ll try to do better, but don’t all addicts make that resolution?

Maybe I’d better watch Wall-E again. That cute little animated movie contained several valuable lessons, as well as one of my favorite songs of the moment, Didn’t You See the Movie? by Kari Kimmel. Maybe we should all set aside our computers and video games and internet phones and TVs for a few hours and get back into the “real world.”

Or maybe, in a week to ten days, I’ll forget all these good intentions and dive right back in.

See you on my screen.

Update: I’m typing this P.S. on my laptop. The day after I ordered the keyboard, it arrived on my doorstep. Way to go, Sony! Now if only I can remember my resolutions to be more sensible …

On an icy Friday evening, Februry 4, 1977, in a small Baptist church outside Benton, Arkansas, I married John Wilkins. We were both 22. We had no concept, of course, of how very young that is.

I met John in college. He sat next to me in my very first class, freshman English. We have slightly different memories of that class. The professor was a woman who loved my writing and bored the class endlessly by reading my essays aloud. She told me I was destined to be the next Erma Bombeck or James Thurber – heady words to someone who already dreamed of being a published writer and craved that validation. I’m not sure how she would have felt about my choice to write romance, but I do credit her for giving me the initial courage to pursue publication. John, on the other hand, does not remember her so warmly, since she was rather biased toward her female students. It’s a wonder he would even talk to this “teacher’s pet” outside of class!

The first thing I noticed about John was his hair. He wore it pretty long then – almost to his collar – and curly. With his height – 6’5″ compared to my own just-shy-of-5’4″ – and sideburns that came  down almost to the dimple in his chin, he stood out from the crowd. Quite thin then, he had a weakness for solid color polo shirts and bright plaid pants worn with blue suede Adidas shoes (it was 1973. We were all in questionable fashions). I couldn’t help but notice him. Our kids still think our old photos are hilarious, especially their dad, whom they know as a pullover-and-jeans wearing Republican with a fondness for “elevator music” and TV news programs.

(John and me at a friend’s wedding in 1976)

It took him until the end of the semester to ask me out (girls didn’t ask then, but I think I made it quite clear that I was interested). Our first date was washing his sparkly-gold-and-white ’73 T-bird, followed by dinner at a mall cafeteria. Very romantic, hmm? That car became very important to our relationship. Both of us had weekend obligations at our homes in central Arkansas, an almost 3-hour drive from our college in the northeast corner of the state, so every Friday and Sunday we commuted together (I didn’t have a car). We spent those hours talking and listening to his 8-track tapes. During summer breaks, he made the 45 minute drive to my house to pick me up for movies and dinner in Little Rock (halfway between my home in Benton and his in Jacksonville). Nearly every weekend, we water-skiied on Greer’s Ferry Lake, often with friends. It was a fun, carefree time. He still owns that T-Bird, which he keeps in storage. It hasn’t been driven in years. I wonder if the 8-track player still works.

Our wedding was modest. The music was provided by friends and family (I’ve mentioned that before). The reception was held in the church basement. A friend of my mom’s made the cake for expenses; it was beautiful, white with cascading pink and mint green roses. I wore an Alfred Angelo gown I bought on sale, using the proceeds of my summer job. John wore a mint-green brocade tux with a mint green ruffled shirt (still the 70s).  On June 23, 2007, our second daughter, Kerry, wore my dress for her own wedding. Our son-in-law, Justin, should be very relieved that John’s tux was a rental.

We had our first child, Courtney, on April 1, 1980, followed by Kerry in April, 1983. David came along in November, 1988, making our family complete.

During these past 32 years, we’ve had our share of triumphs and challenges. We’ve been through the usual financial ups and downs, survived in-law adjustments and normal marital conflicts. We’ve lost parents – his father and my mother, both traumatic times for us. We’ve changed careers, achieved a few dreams, gave up a few others. It certainly hasn’t always been easy, but we were both committed to making it work, and we’ve been rewarded for our efforts. He is still my best friend.

Though we’ve been remarkably blessed, health-wise, we’ve made a few emergency-room runs with our children. We spent our 22nd anniversary in a hospital waiting room while our oldest daughter, still in college then, underwent an emergency appendectomy. The following year, that same daughter was badly injured in a chemistry lab accident that resulted in several days in ICU. That was undoubtedly the most terrifying ordeal of our lives, and we survived it by clinging to each other. Courtney is now healthy and thriving in her research career, while Kerry prepares to graduate from medical school in the spring and David is a pre-med major in college. John and I both consider our children to be the greatest blessing of our marriage, and we are so grateful for them.

The passing years have left their toll. We’ve both gained a few pounds. He still has a thick head of hair, but it’s silver now. Mine would be, too, if it weren’t for my stylist. There might be a few wrinkles and sags (forget plastic surgery – I’ve earned every line!). We have both worked out of our home for years, so we’re together pretty much all the time. I won’t say we never quarrel (lightning would strike me here in my chair if I tried to make you believe that), but for the most part, we get along well. I know that he has been my biggest supporter in my career, believing in me even when I suffered doubts, still certain that I can do anything I set my mind to. And I am continually amazed by his quiet competence – our kids and I are convinced that there is nothing he can’t fix or figure out, given enough time. He would and has dropped anything for me or the kids or his mother, who he visits in her home every day to take care of things around the house for her. I, on the other hand, am a fan of his beautiful wood working, and I’m delighted that he is now pursuing it full-time, with displays in local art galleries and a growing number of collectors.

Whenever I write a happy ending for my romance novels, I always envision a long and fulfilling marriage for the couple I’ve brought together in the story. My own story didn’t end 32 years ago; it was just beginning.

Happy anniversary, John. Here’s to the next 32.

I love car trips. Whether it’s a day trip to Hot Springs or Mountain View or Memphis, a weekend in Branson, or a longer cross-country vacation, I enjoy getting up early and heading out on an adventure. I rarely drive; I’m perfectly content to be in the passenger seat, watching the countryside pass by. This is when my imagination kicks in. That one little house with the lights burning at four-thirty in the morning when the neighbors’ houses are dark … a nurse getting ready for an early shift? A restaurant worker, perhaps, who’ll be serving breakfasts to hungry patrons soon.

I have one of those best-of-both-worlds homes, in some ways. I live in a rural area surrounded by neighbors who raise cows and miniature horses, but I’m only a ten minute drive from two nice sized towns and twenty minutes from downtown Little Rock. What would it be like, I wonder during those leisurely, vacation road trips, to live in a tiny, more isolated town? Where everyone does their shopping at the local grocery, everyone attends the same little school, everyone knows everyone on Main Street? I usually fly to larger venues — New York, San Francisco, Chicago — so I miss the countryside on the way, but I enjoy those trips, too, exploring the cities and wondering how it might feel to live in a highrise within walking distance of markets and theaters and museums.

Maybe because he’s stuck doing all the driving, my husband was never as enthused about long road trips as I was. He prefers to fly for long trips. I’m not afraid of flying, and there are certainly times when I’d rather get to my destination sooner, but you miss so much of the country below when you’re 30,000 feet above it. When our kids were young, we’d confine our whole-family vacations to within a 10-hour drive from home. Galveston, Branson, St. Louis, Gatlinburg and New Orleans were all within that circle, so we visited them fairly often. Beach, tourist town, urban area, mountain resort, Cajun country; each trip was fun in a different way, and always fueled my ever-active imagination.

Early last year, my oldest daughter moved 2,300 miles from home to accept a post-doctoral research position. As much as my husband and I hated to see her move so far away, we also rather dreaded the move. She’d been in an apartment in Little Rock for several years during graduate school and wanted to take her furniture and household items with her, so to save her money, we impulsively volunteered to help her move. She rented a U-Haul truck with a trailer to pull her little car and we set out on that long drive — with my husband behind the wheel, as usual.

We had a fantastic time. We were fortunate enough to have a brand-new truck with comfortable leather seats and plenty of leg room (more for them than me. I sat in the middle. But since I have the shortest legs, it wasn’t so bad). We’d given ourselves plenty of time for the trip, so we stopped often to walk around and explore. Through Oklahoma and Kansas, Colorado and Wyoming, Utah and Idaho and into the Pacific Northwest … several states I’d only flown over in the past.

Miles of prairie … what would it be like to live in one of those houses so far from any town? Dust and tumbleweeds and no trees in sight. So different from my rolling, heavily forested home state. That one tiny house at the edge of my sight, surrounded by a couple of obviously-planted and tended trees. Who lives there? Have they ever lived anywhere else?

The mountains. Cold. More snow than we ever see in central Arkansas. I’ve never shoveled a walk or skiied down a mountain. Back home it was already getting warm, already well into spring, and yet it was 3 degrees when we passed through Wyoming as snow fell around us. We lingered in Utah, awed at the towering black-and-white mountains surrounding us, intrigued by the little farms carved into the bases of those mountains. In Idaho, we spent several hours transfixed by the roaring power of 212-foot Shoshone Falls. We just happened to arrive there at the peak of their flow, swollen by snow melt in the mountains, and they were spectacular.

And the Pacific Northwest. Gorgeous. We explored for days, from the moutains to the Pacific Ocean shores. And loved every minute of it.

During that entire two weeks, my camera was never out of my hand. I kept notebooks close by in case inspiration struck — which it did more than once. My husband and I flew home and while it was nice to get back so quickly, it might have been fun to drive back a different route. Through Montana, perhaps. I’ve never been to Montana. Maybe on a future trip …

I’m also an avid armchair traveler. During my lifetime, books have taken me all over this planet — and into a few other worlds. And it’s always a joy to discover someplace new, to set my imagination free.

As much as I love seeing this country and all its many facets, I set many of my own books in the South. They often take place in Arkansas and surrounding states, because I’m comfortable there. At home. Because I love the South and enjoy introducing my readers to the people and places there.

My new release, THE TEXAN’S TENNESSEE ROMANCE, is set in Gatlinburg, one of my favorite vacation retreats (and from where many of the photos I use in this blog have come). I tried to incorporate some of the local scenery I’ve enjoyed so much into the story of two lawyers-in-crisis escaping to the mountains and finding love and solace there. I hope you enjoy the book. And that it serves as a mini-vacation for you, a pleasant escape from everyday routines.

Until my next chance at a real-life escape, I’ll keep writing … and keep traveling from the comfort of my armchair through the books in my always-growing,  to-be-read pile.

(Can you tell I’ve made a recent trip to the Memphis zoo?)

Writing can be a lonely job. Though there are some writing partners, generally it’s just one person with a computer or a pen and pad. The characters and places we create become quite real to us, but the truth is, we spend much of our time alone with our imaginations. Which can make us a little odd.

Not long after I signed with my agent more than twenty years ago, she suggested that I join a writers’ support group. I’d never even met a published writer at the time, and she thought it would be good for me to network and make friends within the business. I joined the national Romance Writers of America, but there was no local chapter at the time and I knew of no other local organizations. I didn’t even know anyone else who wanted to write books … or so I believed.

So, I placed a free ad in the state newspaper. I don’t remember the exact wording, but basically it said that I was a serious, aspiring author wanting to form a writers’ support club. The same day that small ad appeared, I received a phone call from an aspiring romance writer who is still one of my closest friends (Sally, the one who told me when my first book appeared on the shelves, and who has since published a dozen books of her own). It turned out that there was already a small but active writers’ group in my area, dedicated to popular fiction. Most of the dozen or so members at that time wanted to write romance, but the club was open to any genre. Sally invited me to attend, and within the first ten minutes, I knew I’d found a group of friends.

It was a wonderful feeling to be surrounded for the first time by others who shared my dream. We had different day jobs, different backgrounds, different goals in writing, but we all had that desire to tell stories. To see our books in print. To know that our books were being read and enjoyed. During the next few years, as that group grew and evolved, it amazed me how many people shared that dream of writing. Some are content to write for a hobby, others want to self-publish, to write for small presses or epublishers, for magazines or anthologies or big publishing companies, still others dream of bestseller lists and movie deals, but we all have something in common. We’re writers.

Romance Writers of America has more than 10,000 members. I’ve attended conferences with over 2,500 writers and aspiring writers in attendance. I’ve made some of my best friends at those conferences. I’ve always been amazed at what a supportive group writers can be. Despite the natural and even healthy competitiveness, writers spend a lot of time speaking and teaching and critiquing … actively training our competition!

Though time has become an issue for me with deadlines and family responsibilities competing for attention, I still belong to RWA, to Novelists, Inc. (a multi-genre organization for writers of popular fiction who have published at least two books), and to a local RWA chapter, Diamond State Romance Authors. Through these groups, I receive updates on publisher news, tips on staying healthy in our sedentary job, ways to fight burnout. Through on-line writers’ forums, I can ask questions and receive instant replies, send congratulations for writing achievements and condolences when bad things happen to good writers. We cheer each other on during our writing days, keep each other focused and motivated, brainstorm and offer advice. I can’t imagine how my career — and my life — would have been different had I not sought out other writers so long ago.

My husband belongs to two woodworking groups, one for general woodworking, another for woodturning. He tells me he feels the same way about his organizations as I do. He’s made close friends, learned a great deal, shared ideas and accomplishments. Again, the people in the groups come from widely different backgrounds, but they share a joy of working with wood, of crafting and creating all sorts of beautiful and useful items.

Our society seems to become more fragmented all the time. Many of the social and charitable organizations that were once so popular have faded away. We spend more time in front of the computer or the television, less time mingling and socializing face-to-face. But I think we benefit greatly, as individuals and as communities, by getting together, sharing our common interests, supporting each others’ dreams. Whatever your interests, there is probably a club of others with whom you can share your passion. If not — why not start one?

I’m so grateful for all the friends — writers and readers — I’ve made through this career I love.