Author: Gina Wilkins

Every year since she was about 12 (which would be a total of 13 years), my middle child, Kerry, and I have braved the weather and the crowds to shop on Black Friday. We’ve stood outside in cold rain at 4 a.m., tried on shoes at 5, jostled our way through a crowded mall at 6. For some strange reason, we both think it’s fun. Though we usually have a list of a few things we hope to score, we deliberately never have anything we desperately want to buy, so we’re not terribly disappointed when we miss out on the big sale items. Perhaps that’s why we are able to enjoy the experience. We get a lot of shopping done, find a few bargains, and top it all off with lunch at a nice restaurant. She starts her medical residency next year, so it may be that we’ll have to skip a few Black Fridays in the future, but I’ll always treasure the memories of the ones we’ve shared — our special day each year.

During all of our years of shopping on Black Friday, we’ve had bad experiences with rude shoppers only a few times. People who selfishly break in line, or push and shove, or curse or act belligerently. Most of the people of every age, ethnicity and status with whom we have waited in line have been friendly, polite, laughing at themselves for being out so early and braving the elements to save a few dollars or, like Kerry and me, because it’s a family tradition. We’ve laughed with them, swapped stories, compared holiday notes, even exchanged recipes (I once got a really good hot cider recipe from a lady in line behind me — I’ll have to post it on my easy recipes page). I’ve seen shoppers hold doors for the elderly and handicapped even if it meant losing a position in line, themselves. I’ve been waved ahead of someone in line to check out because I had only an item or two and the other shopper had a cartful. I’ve seen someone pick up a dropped ten dollar bill and run to catch the person who’d lost it. Part of the fun for Kerry and me is to people watch and share the Christmas shopping experience with others.

And then I hear stories about a Walmart employee who died in a shoppers’ stampede in New York. About people getting into fist fights and pulling weapons at other shopping sites. And it makes me so sad that there are those who would turn what should be a fun experience into an ugly, tragic media event. I think of the children who witness that inexcusable behavior, who are being taught that greed and selfishness and violence are acceptable traits, who see the holidays only as a time for acquisition and flaunting of material possessions, and I am sickened. That’s not the world I want to live in, not the one I’ve raised my children to perpetuate.

When I hear about those things, I remind myself of all the nice people I’ve met, the uplifting things I’ve seen, and I honestly believe that most people are decent and caring. That sometimes otherwise nice enough people get caught up in mob mentality and behave in ways they wouldn’t, ordinarily. And then there are those who just ruin everything good.

I don’t know the solution to Black Friday violence (while I know the name is a financial allusion, it sounds bad in itself, doesn’t it?). Maybe the stores should stop offering those few, highly coveted, extreme markdowns that are available in such limited supplies that some shoppers feel compelled to fight for them. I certainly understand the reasoning behind that bait, having worked in advertising and retail in the past — but perhaps store-wide discounts would be as effective as a couple of hysteria-building bargains. Again, it’s giving up on something because of the “bad apples,” as we seem to be doing more and more these days, but maybe it’s the only answer.

I admit it, I want to live in Norman Rockwell’s world. I was blessed by being raised by parents who had little money but a wealth of values they passed on to their four children. We didn’t have a lot of material possessions, but we were taught that other things were much more important — like being together, sharing holiday memories, respecting and appreciating other people. John and I have tried to raise our children the same way, valuing integrity, character and education over money and “things,” staying out of the “name brand” game, learning to budget and save and appreciate the things they have rather than always trying to acquire more. We’ve told them repeatedly that there is no “thing” worth fighting for or giving up their personal integrity to possess.

Like everyone else, I like nice things. I recently posted about the modern conveniences I enjoy, like microwave ovens and digital cameras and a good computer. There are always a few items I wouldn’t mind having but just can’t justify (such as a big screen HDTV when I have a perfectly good 27″ Sony Trinitron that isn’t really all that old. When it wears out, I’ll upgrade). But, you know? There is no gift I could receive, nothing I could buy, that would be more valuable to me than the memories of shopping and lunching with Kerry on all those Black Fridays. Or attending football games with Courtney. Or playing video games with David. Or going with the whole family to Branson, or to the fair, or to science museums, or to the beach or the mountains (we’ve taken modest vacations, too, but we’ve always had fun together). I’ve known people who have broken ties with their families and friends because of fights over money and things, and no matter how wealthy or trendy or famous they are, I pity them. At the end of my life, I hope to be surrounded by loved ones — as my mother was — rather than a roomful of “things” purchased solely to impress those who think real treasure can be measured in dollar signs.

Apparently, sleep deprivation has made me melancholy and preachy today. Sorry about that. To conclude on a more cheerful note, I hope all my U.S. friends are having a nice Thanksgiving weekend (sans the bad apples), and I wish peace to all my friends around the world. And a very happy birthday to my son, David. May you each find a little sunny spot of your own to enjoy sometime today.

During my twenty-plus years in this career, I’ve met hundreds of writers, both published and unpublished. Writers of mystery, suspense, horror, inspirational fiction, poetry, westerns, erotica, literary fiction, sci-fi and fantasy, nonfiction, children’s literature — and of course, romance. Contemporary, Regency, Historical, Futuristic, any time and place their imaginations take them.

I enjoy talking to those other authors about the process of writing. What draws them to the type of fiction they write. I find certain traits in common among writers of those different genres. Some love research, spending hours reading diaries and journals and old newspapers and reference books. Others like interacting with their contemporary sources, haunting police stations and attending FBI academies and questioning doctors and coronors and weapons experts and anyone else who might provide information to make their books more realistic.

I’ve been asked why I’ve never written a story set in the past. A historical romance, perhaps. Whenever anyone asks me that, I think of something historical romance writer Shirl Henke once said to me, that she sometimes felt as though she were born a hundred years too late. She wasn’t the only historical author who has said something like that to me. So when people ask me why all my stories are set in the present, my answer would have to be that I can’t really identify with any other time.

I have always enjoyed seeing artifacts of the past, visiting museums and historical restorations, leafing through old photographs and diaries. When I was young, my family would take trips to Branson before it was the bustling, glittering tourist mecca it is now. It was still possible to imagine then what it must have been like to live there in the early 1900s when Harold Bell Wright wrote THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS. Silver Dollar City was like stepping back into that era, and I loved pretending that we really had gone back in time for a visit. It was fun, but I never wanted to stay in the past.

I’ve said a few times that I’m addicted to modern conveniences that haven’t even been invented yet. I remember as a child having only one television set, and that black and white. Fighting with my brothers over whose turn it was to wash and dry dishes after dinner. Hanging clothes on the line because we didn’t have a dryer. And — shudder — no microwave oven.

I wrote my first book on a little electric typewriter that belonged to my mother-in-law. Editing involved either using bottles of correction fluid, or retyping the entire page — and hoping to end on the same line so I didn’t have to retype the next page, as well. Using carbon paper as my “back up.” When I sold that first book, my husband took the money he’d been saving for a table saw and bought me a computer. It had a small, amber-on-black monitor, and a 40 meg hard-drive. The man who sold it to us said that we would never possibly need more storage than that. My first word processing program was called “Volkswriter.” I learned to use it within a few days, and I fell in love with “search and replace.” Now I can’t imagine living without my Sony Vaio and I use the latest incarnation of Microsoft Word (definitely don’t want to get into the Apple vs. PC argument here). Every morning, I edit the writing I did the day before, and I’m so glad I’m not having to retype pages!

Before I sold my first book, I was in advertising and employee training for the now-defunct Magic Mart Discount Department Stores. I was a copywriter, then wrote and produced slide shows for training new associates. I did all the photography for those slide shows. I was also the photographer for three weddings, which effectively put an end to my photography career. The stress of that was too much for me. Knowing how treasured those photos would be, and that they couldn’t simply be reshot if they didn’t turn out well was so nerve-wracking. I once shot all my Christmas morning photos of my kids without realizing that there was no film in the camera. Now I have a Canon digital camera — and I love it. I’ve taken all the photos in this blog (except the ones of me, of course, mostly shot by my daughter, Courtney), which means I have to confess to owning a Star Trek Uno game. It’s so nice to see what I’ve shot immediately without waiting for processing and to not worry about running out of film (though I do worry about losing the photos someday because the technology will have changed too much to view them any more).

As for music, I’ve gone from records (I still remember the thrill of getting my first stereo system for Christmas), to 8-track (still have a few James Taylor and Carole King tapes around here somewhere), to cassette and now to digital. Those 99-cent instant downloads make me very happy.

The problem now is that technology is moving so quickly I simply can’t keep up. I haven’t upgraded to HDTV yet — there’s nothing wrong with my 27 inch Sony. I still tape programs I don’t want to miss with a VCR, though I also have a DVD player for watching movies (no Blu-Ray yet). I don’t have an iPhone and I’ve never sent a text message. I spend a lot of time asking my son for help with various computer applications. And you know how far behind I am on the internet, since I’ve only had a blog for a couple of months now. I try to stay aware of all the new developments, whether I use them yet or not, so the characters in my books aren’t “living in the past.” That requires a lot of reading and researching in itself — sometimes I feel like I’m living in the future!

I had to laugh recently when I was walking through WalMart with my son, who’ll be twenty this week. We passed the toy department and something caught his eye. “Man,” he said, “the little kids today have the coolest toys! I didn’t have anything like this.”

Welcome to my world, son.

There was frost on the ground when I woke this morning. The sky is a clear winter blue and my breath hung in the air when I got my newspaper.

I love winter. The holidays. Wrapping up in the warm afghans my mother made. Sitting by the fire drinking hot tea (well, I drink that year round, but it’s even better in the winter). Snuggling under covers on a cold night. I love going to Branson during the Christmas season. The holiday-bedazzled Silver Dollar City is even more fun for me when we’re bundled up in coats and scarves and gloves and sipping hot chocolate (they make the best hot chocolate there!). My birthday is December 20, and I used to think the whole world was celebrating with me.

We don’t get a lot of snow in Arkansas. A quarter inch of snow around here is enough to close all the schools and send people dashing to the grocery store for bread and milk. I like snow. Ice is a different story, of course, and we do get the occasional ice storm that leaves us shivering in the dark (I’ve written several stories set in ice storms). I remember reading stories as a child — like The Bobbsey Twins tales — in which the children built huge snowmen and snow forts and had snowball fights, and I envied them. While my kids have been able to build a few nice sized snowmen in their lives, sometimes they just have to make do with what little snow we get.

My husband and his mother both suffer from winter depression, and my oldest daughter has to fight that condition. While I see that it’s very difficult for them, that has never been a problem for me. Maybe because I tend to be a cocooner. Working at home is a good fit for me, because I’m perfectly content to be here. I’ve been known not to leave the house for days, which seems very strange to some people. As long as I have a couple of good books to read and my computer — or a notebook and pen — I don’t mind being snowbound for a few days. It’s even better when my whole family is around me. We’re game players and we’ve spent many hours sitting around the kitchen table with card games and board games. Though now that my children are growing up and moving out, that’s becoming a rare treat.

Maybe I’d feel differently about winter if I lived in a less temperate climate, as does one of my on-line friends (hi, Cara-Mae!) who’s already shoveling walks. But after an Arkansas summer with weeks of dry, hundred-degree days, winter is a welcome relief for me. Of course, after months of gray days, spring will be a nice change, too.

As the holidays rapidly approach, I wish a happy up-coming winter to all my on-line friends.

I saw Quantum of Solace yesterday with my husband and son, and we really enjoyed it. It was loud and fast and had pretty women for them and a dashing spy for me. For the first time since Connery, we can all agree that we like the actor playing Bond (I didn’t like Roger Moore, my husband never liked Pierce Brosnan in the role).

But my real moment of geek-dom came during the previews.

I have a confession to make. Some of you might be surprised. Others, not so much.

My name is Gina Wilkins, and I’m a closet Trekker.

No, I don’t dress up in costume and go to cons (I haven’t had the body to wear a Seven of Nine catsuit in some time now). I don’t read the novels. But I have seen every episode of every live-action Star Trek series, multiple times (maybe I missed a couple of DS9s. I’m not sure). I even watched all four seasons of Star Trek Enterprise, which was so poorly executed and ended so abysmally that my daughter and I call it “the Star Trek that never existed.” I have seen every Star Trek film — and yes, I own every one except that awful “Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.” Not even for Trek would I watch that one again.

Seeing the preview for the new Star Trek movie made me sit up in my seat and say out loud, “I am so there.” I don’t know what they did to Zachary Quinto’s eyebrows (someone on Television Without Pity suggested that it involved salad tongs and a weed whacker), but he actually looked Spock-ish. As long as he doesn’t slice off any skulls, I can accept him in the role (for those who don’t recognize the allusion, I also watch Heroes, even though I — like the writers, apparently — long ago gave up trying to keep the storylines straight).

I was eleven years old when the original Star Trek premiered. I loved the idea of being in outer space, of all those alien cultures, of all the adventures to be had “out there.” I had a silly crush on Mr. Spock. Even then, I wove romances in my mind, and I lulled myself to sleep at night with stories of Mr. Spock finding a way to reunite with Mariette Hartley from the episode “All Our Yesterdays” (this was long before I’d ever heard the term “fan fic”).

The new film looks like it has potential to be a lot of fun. I don’t much care about canon or continuity — there have been inconsistencies throughout the franchise. One of the most glaring that pops up to me is Kirk’s brother, Sam, who died in the original series. Later, in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Kirk says he never had a brother, but Spock was like a brother to him. That bugged me a little — but big deal. It’s fiction. None of these people ever really existed. If the new film rewrites their history a bit — fine. Just do it well. Tell me a good story. Make it fun (quick — what were Captain Kirk’s last words in Star Trek Generations?)

It wasn’t the first television show that captured my imagination and made me want to tell stories about those characters. The earliest I remember was “The Rifleman.”  And I had a serious “thing” for Johnny Madrid of “Lancer.” And Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy and The Monkees and …

Am I confessing these things just to humiliate myself? I don’t think so. I’m just illustrating the evolution of a writer. I honestly do not remember not wanting to write. To tell stories. By the time I was in high school and college, I’d outgrown the “fan fic” stage and wanted to create my own characters with their own histories and quirks and challenges. I trained as a journalist, worked in advertising and employee training, but my heart was in writing. Receiving my first rejection letter after finally getting up the nerve to submit was devastating, and the second rejection even more ego-crushing, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I needed to write, and I needed to be published to validate that life-long urge. In 1986, my career dream came true.

Ninety-three books later, I still have the need to tell stories. I have new goals — I’m trying a different type of book now that I’ll tell you more about in the future. There are days when I don’t want to work, when I’d rather go shop or play or read someone else’s books or watch a movie, but I have to meet a deadline so I’m forced to write. On those days, I remind myself of how much I wanted this, how hard I worked to get here. And I think of all the fun I had enjoying the product of other writers’ imaginings — from TV to movies to the books that were always in my hand.  Yes, there is fiction — literature, serious films, etc. — that is meant to make us think, to make us grow, to make us better human beings, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for escapist fare that’s simply meant to provide a few hours of pleasure.

So, tell me a good story, J.J. Abrams. Make me laugh, make my pulse race, make me care about those fictional people on the screen. I’ll try to do the same for my readers.

So, I had a mammogram today. And, as always, I left wondering why I tend to procrastinate about that particular test. Though I’ve been having mammograms since I was forty, I haven’t gone faithfully every year. I was six months overdue this time. And there’s no excuse for it. True, it’s not my idea of a fun Friday morning. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but there is no pain. I was in and out of the clinic in less than half an hour. And my insurance pays for one mammogram a year for me. So why do I put it off?

My mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 1983, at the age of 51. Her own mother had died of a brain tumor at 54. I watched my mom go through a mastectomy and chemotherapy and it was grueling, though she rarely complained. She continued with the job she loved — secretary/bookkeeper for a family she’d worked for since she was 18 — missing only a few days with each treatment. For the next 20 years she had regular mammograms, often making it an outing with her three sisters. They’d all get their scans, then go out to lunch or shopping. Mother could even make mammograms fun.

In 2003, Mother found a lump in her other breast. It, too, was malignant. Once again, she endured surgery and chemo, with the same courage, grace and even humor that she had shown 20 years earlier. And again, she continued to work. The two-time breast cancer survivor was unable to defeat the pancreatic cancer that took her in August of 2007. She worked through April of that year, wanting to make sure her employer’s tax reports were completed before she left.

Just off-hand, I can think of four celebrities who are recent breast cancer survivors (I know there are many more, but these popped into my head): Robin Roberts, Melissa Etheridge, Sheryl Crow and Christina Applegate. All young, healthy women who were saved by early detection and treatment. According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, over 182,000 new incidences of breast cancer were predicted to be diagnosed in the U.S. this year. Of those, over 40,000 will die. Because of advances in early detection and treatment, more women are surviving breast cancer. But every woman has to be responsible for her own health.

Mammograms are covered by many insurance policies, but for those who aren’t covered, there are many avenues for receiving reduced-cost or even free mammograms. If you have a family history of breast cancer, if you’re forty or over, or if you meet any of the risk factors outlined so well at the Susan G. Komen Foundation website, take the advice of this habitual procrastinator. Make the appointment.

It takes more than pink ribbons to fight this terrible disease.