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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.

I finished my latest book this weekend (DIAGNOSIS: DADDY, Silhouette Special Edition, August, 2009). At around 9 p.m. Friday, I typed the words, “The End.” I’ve been worthless ever since.

Almost every author has a different process of writing. I know at least one who gets up every morning, dresses professionally, goes to her office and works an eight-hour day complete with coffee breaks and lunch hour, taking off weekends and holidays.

I hope it doesn’t disappoint you to learn that I’m not nearly so disciplined.

I’m a binge-and-purge writer (not an original description, I heard it from someone else). I can go several weeks without typing a word on my work-in-progress. Part of that is pure procrastination; writers are notorious for trying to find anything to do other than write. It’s not that we don’t love our job; it’s just so darned frustrating/exasperating/heartbreaking/mind-blanking/add your own description here. Characters won’t cooperate, ideas that seemed so clever at the onset suddenly either go south or dry up entirely, we find ourselves under or over word count, we worry that the editors/readers/critics won’t like what we’ve done. We spend too much time hunched over computers, resulting in neck/back/arm/wrist pain, eye strain, weight gain. It’s not a hard job when compared to so many others — but it has its own challenges. And other things just seem more fun than sitting down to work. Doing laundry. Dusting behind the refrigerator. Going shopping (my own guilty temptation I have to resist).

I once read that a certain writer’s agent had to lock him in a hotel room and refuse to let him out until he finished a book; I think that story was told about Douglas Adams. I can’t be sure if it was even true, but it sounds believable to this binge-and-purge writer.

When I’m between projects, I read the books that pile up on my to-be-read pile. Before I was published, I read all the time. Three or four books a week, easily. I reread my favorite books over and over until I had them almost memorized. Now I find it harder to read just for pleasure, for several reasons. When I do start a reading “orgy,” I tend to read four or five books all at once, finishing one and immediately picking up another. I don’t read as many new authors as I once did; I find it hard enough to keep up with my favorites. There are lots of times when I miss just being an avid reader.

Even when I’m not actually writing — I’m writing. In other words, the next story is always at the back of my mind. I live with the characters in my head, slowly get to know them, play out possible scenes between them as I lay in bed at night. Sometimes I have two or three stories building in my mind at once; the next book that’s due and then connected books, perhaps, or an idea I’m letting develop slowly for a future project. I’m constantly filing away mental notes based on something I read in the paper or see on TV or overhear out in public (I’m a shameless eavesdropper and people observer). Sometimes I write those notes down in one of the notebooks that is never far from my hand (there’s one in my purse, one in my car, at least one in every room of my house); usually I remember ideas that seem particularly workable.

Continue reading “Post-book blahs” →

My husband is a dichromate. In other words, he is colorblind. Not completely colorblind, or monochromate, but green-red colorblind, a condition that affects between 5 and 8 percent of all males and less than 1 percent of females.

He struggled in elementary school because his condition was undiagnosed. He learned early to compensate so that not even he was aware of what he was missing. It wasn’t until he was in college that he realized the extent of his colorblindness. He’d point to a green car and tell me to look past that “brown car.” Confused, I eventually realized that green and brown had no distinction for him. I would show him a red azalea bush in full bloom — and he wouldn’t see the flowers. He is unable to distinguish red when it is next to green, as it is on the bushes. He doesn’t actually see red at all, though he sees a color he has learned to identify as red.

There are a couple of good websites that show exactly what a dichromate sees. One is http://colorvisiontesting.com. The other is Vischeck.com. These sites were revelations for our kids and me, because my husband looked at the side-by-side photos at those sites and saw absolutely no difference. Where we saw reds and greens and all the hues in between, he saw different shades of sort of a khaki color with splashes of blue (he sees blue very clearly, but not purple, because purple has red in it).

John sees absolutely no difference between these two photos from Vischeck.com. He stares intently at them, trying to see what I admire  in the bright red flowers, but what he perceives is on the right. If the background behind the flowers were green rather than blue, he would not be able to see the flowers against the background.

To be honest, it makes me sad that he misses out on the vivid colors around us. I love color, red being one of my favorites, and it hurts me to know that the bright splashes of red I use in my decorating are nothing more than rather muddy tones to him. The colorblindness has been a disability in some ways. Many everyday tasks involve color perception; more than you’d realize if you couldn’t see them. Though he has always been very “handy,” able to fix just about anything that breaks around the house, he has more difficulty with doing electrical chores (he can’t see the differences between the colored wires, so he always has one of us help him label them according to color). He has often had to ask strangers to help him determine the color of something he needs to purchase.

Continue reading “Life in modified color” →

It’s common knowledge that aromas can evoke strong memories. Evergreens, cinnamon rolls, fresh-cut grass …

Music does the same for me. I love modern music (I check iTunes almost every Tuesday for new rock, pop and alternative releases), but occasionally I listen to some “oldies.” Just a snippet of an old song can transport me back in time, bringing memories so sharp, so clear that I can almost imagine I’m there again.

Music is a part of my very earliest memories. One of the first songs I remember hearing on the radio is “Your Cheatin’ Heart” by Hank Williams. Written a couple of years before I was born, it was still played on country radio stations when I was old enough to pay attention. I couldn’t have been more than five or six in my memories of singing along with that song from Daddy’s radio (he was and still is a country music fan).

My mother’s father, my beloved “granddaddy,” loved music. I remember sitting with him on his living room sofa beneath a big print of a woman playing a harpsicord (I have that print now). Every day, he watched the Lawrence Welk Show and a local TV program starring Little Rock’s Venable Quartet. I specifically remember two songs that group sang — “This Old House” and “Scarlet Ribbons.” Granddaddy loved both those songs, and I remember him singing along. I would have been less than nine years old, because my grandmother passed away and he moved out of that house after that.

My mother and her three younger sisters all had beautiful voices. They sang together often while growing up, less often but still beautifully as adults. Mother had a strong, rich alto voice. She sang around the house all the time, and very frequently in church. Sometimes she performed  duets with our family friend, Bobby Messer. I can still hear them singing “In the Garden” and “Fill My Cup, Lord.” Hearing either of those songs now brings tears to my eyes. As does the song, “Stardust.” That was Mother’s favorite. She simply adored it. A few days before she slipped away, her youngest sister, my aunt Gerry, and I sang the song to her. I don’t know if she heard us, but I hope she did. I didn’t inherit Mother’s voice — I sing a decent alto, but nothing like hers — but she passed along her love of music to me and to my brothers, two of whom have sung in country and gospel groups.

I grew up in the Salem Baptist Church in a rural area outside Benton, Arkansas. Open the old Baptist Hymnal and turn to any page, and chances are I’ll know almost all the words to the song there. Music was a big part of the services in our church that had once been a dairy barn. There was still a big drain in the center of the concrete floor of the sanctuary. That old building has long since been replaced, but I loved that dairy barn church. I can still hear the slightly out-of-tune piano played with great enthusiasm by Jessie Thurman, my best friend’s mother,while music director Kenneth Floyd (a well-digger in his day job) led us in singing, “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus” and “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus (Sweetest Name I Know).”

Mother and Bobby Messer were the leaders of the youth group that was the center of my teen social life. We sang a lot. In the late sixties and early seventies, youth group musicals were very popular, and our group traveled to many other churches to perform. If ever I hear “The House of the Rising Sun” on an oldies station now, I remember how we sang “Amazing Grace” to that tune, and thought we were so cool for doing so. Mother led the song, very proud of herself for keeping our performances “hip.” I’m not sure she ever knew the tune came from a song about a house of ill repute.

I live nearly an hour away from that church now, and I have to confess that I don’t attend services every Sunday, even though I’m a long-time member of a church closer to where I live. Services aren’t the same now. We no longer sing the old songs from a worn hymnal, but newer choruses from a projector screen at the front of a modernized, sound-wired sanctuary. I miss those old dairy barn services that filled every Sunday of my childhood. Mother and Bobby are both gone now, but they’re still with me when I hear those old songs.

Like many teenagers, I spent hours in my room. I had a record player that never rested, playing the same LPs (look it up, kids) over and over until they were worn out. I had every album The Monkees released (Granddaddy bought several of them for me before he died in ’67, even though he hated their music, himself). I was deeply enamored with Mickey Dolenz, David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman. Even then I wrote stories, filling notebook after notebook with melodramatic fan fiction that I stashed under the bed where no one could read them. After I outgrew my childhood fantasy of growing up to be Carol Burnett (she could sing, she could act, she was funny and she seemed fearless to me), I concentrated on my dream of someday being a published writer like Mary Stewart, my all-time favorite. To this day, music and writing are intrinsically connected in my mind. I still write with music, though it comes from my computer rather than a record player.

Continue reading “Memories in music” →