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I read somewhere the other day that while many products have taken a hard hit during these tough economic times, the sale of chocolate has remained strong. This didn’t surprise me at all. When difficult times hit, we turn to simple pleasures to make ourselves feel better. Chocolate. Ice cream. Comfort foods made the way Mom used to cook them.

Lots of people I know have “comfort books.” Well-loved stories in dog-eared covers that they read over and over when they need a little lift. My mother felt that way about several of her favorite books. Helen MacInnes’ FRIENDS AND LOVERS was one she treasured. Jeanne Ray’s JULIE AND ROMEO. Several early Nora Roberts romances. And a few special movies. Pollyanna. Anne of Green Gables. Several newer romantic comedies that she watched until she had every line memorized.

When my oldest daughter is sick or feeling particularly low, she reaches for Julie Garwood’s SAVING GRACE. She knows the book so well that she doesn’t even bother reading it now, just flips through the pages for her favorite scenes that make her smile. She says just holding that book makes her feel better. She has many favorite authors and beloved books, but that’s her “feel better, go-to” story. She has her own favorite films she watches when she just wants to be cheered up. She particularly enjoys those little pleasures when she’s wearing one of her favorite football team sweatshirts and a pair of warm, fuzzy socks.

When my second daughter gets a break from the stress of medical school, she crashes in soft lounge wear (it has to be soft, she’s into texture) with a stack of books — she enjoys manga — and DVDs (she loves The Fountain. And The Fugitive — she quotes the line about “thinking up a doughnut with sprinkles” all the time).

I have my own little pleasures. Out of my hundreds of “keeper” books, all of which I’ve enjoyed, there are a few I’ve read so many times I could almost quote them verbatim like the book-keepers in Ray Bradbury’s FAHRENHEIT 451. SWEET STARFIRE by Jayne Ann Krentz. MIDNIGHT RAINBOW by Linda Howard. WATCHERS by Dean Koontz. THESE OLD SHADES and DEVIL’S CUB by Georgette Heyer. Mary Stewart’s THIS ROUGH MAGIC. Oh, gosh, so many more.

And the movies — the ones I call “little films.” The ones I simply “need” to watch every once in a while, as if they were old friends that I very much want to revisit. American Dreamer with JoBeth Williams and Tom Conti. Heart and Souls, a sweet, funny movie with an amazing cast including Robert Downey, Jr. While You Were Sleeping. The Big Easy. Driving Miss Daisy. The Truman Show and The Majestic, both featuring a particularly restrained and touchingly emotive Jim Carrey. And every Christmas, I have to watch White Christmas. Always.

Why these particular books and movies? I don’t know. Most of them wouldn’t be considered great literature or film-making by academia (or Oprah). While I believe all of them have an uplifting message, few of them are considered especially “challenging” — in other words, they’re accessible, identifiable and entertaining. Feel-good. And while we all should be regularly challenged and enlightened and tested, sometimes we simply need to crawl into our fuzzy socks and seek comfort.

Books and movies. Always available. Reasonably priced — or even free for the borrowing, in your local libraries. Taken with a little chocolate, a fairly dependable remedy for an occasional blue mood. Everything in moderation, of course, but such nice treats when you need a pick-me-up.

What’s your comfort book?

I hate to be embarrassed. It’s an almost pathological dread. My kids will tell you that when they were little, if we were out in public and I hissed, “You’re embarrassing me,” they knew they were in big trouble when they got home. Needless to say, they were quite well behaved in public.

My psychiatrist-in-training daughter, Kerry, could probably explain this phobia. I’ve always just written it off to being a bit of a control freak. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to relax and laugh at myself more, but it was quite a problem when I was younger. I was teased often when my face turned bright red whenever I felt I’d made a faux pas.

It still embarrasses me to make a mistake in my books. I work very hard not to make errors, doing research, proofreading over and over — and yet, it has happened. Out of 90 plus books, there have been mistakes that slipped past me and my copy editors. Only to be found by readers — usually my mother, who seemed to get a kick out of catching me. I remember three specifically …

In one early book, I wrote an entire scene centered around the heroine’s allergy to roses. She sneezed, her eyes ran … it wasn’t a pretty sight. And yet, when I belatedly decided to write a hasty, very brief epilogue to the story to describe her wedding, what bouquet did she carry? Red and white roses. My mother called me to ask teasingly if anyone noticed that the bride was sneezing and blowing her nose all the way up the aisle. I assured her that the roses in the bouquet were made of silk (when the truth was, I simply forgot about the allergy).

In another story, I had a secondary character telling of her travels around the world. She’d recently visited Africa. Someone asked if she’d seen a lion, and she said no, but she had seen a tiger. There are, of course, no tigers in Africa. I don’t even know what I was thinking when I wrote that, but once again, it slipped past my proofreading and my editors’. I’m sure I meant to say that she saw the tiger during another trip — to Asia.

My mom caught another blooper in one of the last of my books she read before she passed away. She called to ask, “What side of a horse do you get on?” Not knowing why she asked, I replied, “The horse’s left side, of course. Why?” “Because in your book, you said the hero walked to the right side of the horse and mounted — to prove he still remembered how to ride,” she answered smugly. Shrieking in disbelief, I rushed to check, and yes, that’s exactly what I said in the book. My dignified response to my mother? I meant that he got on the ‘correct’ side of the horse (which, of course, would be the horse’s left). Truth was — I have no idea why I typed “right” when I meant “left” (and I can’t blame my city-slicker editors for missing that one). Mother got quite a laugh out of that last “gotcha.”

Since the humiliation of the ‘horse incident,’ I’ve worked even harder at catching errors before they make it into print. My daughters have done their part when they had time by reading my manuscripts and galleys. When I find mistakes in other authors’ books, I sympathize with them, because I know how hard it is to get it right every time (though I do have a problem with non-Southern writers writing Southern characters who use y’all as a singular pronoun. For anyone who doesn’t know — y’all is plural. Always! That mistake is as cringe-inducing to me as my hero climbing on to the right side of the horse probably was to my western readers. But because I shouldn’t be throwing stones from my glass house, I try to be understanding).

So, if you find any “gotchas” in any of my books in the future — be kind. I’m trying. My goal is to provide a good story, a few hours of entertainment and escape, and if I’ve accomplished that (preferably with no glaring mistakes), I’m pleased.

For those who’ll be celebrating Mardi Gras this week — Laissez les bon temp roulez (and by the way, my research gave me three different spellings for that final word. So if I’m mistaken — blame Google!)

May your good times roll.

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.