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As preachy as I have been about every woman getting regular mammograms, I have been less vocal about colonoscopies. Yes, I know colorectal cancer kills — an estimated 50,000 people in the U.S. were predicted to die this year from the disease. I knew it killed Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Montgomery, Walter Matthau, Joel Siegel and Tony Snow, among so many thousands of others. But I focused more on breast cancer, which attacked my mother twice, getting my mammograms on a fairly regular basis and encouraging others to do the same. Let’s face it — mammograms are easy.

I know doctors encourage all patients to be screened for colorectal cancer beginning at fifty (earlier as indicated by symptoms or family history). My doctor strongly recommended it when I turned fifty three years ago. But I brushed off that advice. Just the thought of a colonoscopy made me shudder. It seemed so much worse than a mammogram. It’s unpleasant, it’s invasive, it’s expensive … it’s embarrassing. Even to blog about. I had no intention of having that test this year. Maybe later, I thought. Maybe when I’m sixty or so.

A few weeks ago, when I had my annual physical, there was a worrisome result on one of the routine screenings my very thorough doctor always conducts (a fecal occult blood test). A second test also came back positive. She recommended a colonoscopy, and I reluctantly agreed. After all, I have a strong family history of cancer, I’m over fifty, and I’d met my insurance deductible for the year … so why not? I was sure nothing would be found. I figured her tests were wrong, or could be explained by the anti-inflammatories I’d taken recently for tendonitis in my shoulder.

So, I did the prep. Twenty-four hours of clear liquids, lime jello and banana popsicles with two liters of a strong, rather oily laxative as a chaser. It was not pleasant. I get cranky when I’m hungry. But to be honest, it wasn’t quite as bad as I expected.

Because I’ve been blessedly healthy, never having been hospitalized for anything except having my three children, I was a little nervous. Again, it just wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. An IV was placed in the back of  my hand, I was sedated so that I felt nothing and barely remember any of the procedure, and it lasted less than thirty minutes. There was absolutely no pain, and no embarrassment. The medical staff made sure of that. I was amazed at how much I had dreaded this procedure for so long, and it really wasn’t a terrible experience.

When the surgeon informed me that he’d found and removed a very large polyp that would almost certainly have turned cancerous within a year or two, if it wasn’t already (a 1 to 2 percent chance, he said), I was very glad that I finally listened to my primary care doctor’s advice. The lab results will be back in a few days, but whatever the results, the polyp is completely gone and will require no follow-up except another screening next year.

I said in a former post that pink ribbons aren’t enough to fight breast cancer. It requires action, in the form of regular screenings and funding for research. I will now be an advocate for regular colorectal screenings (in addition to annual pap smears for women and prostate checks for men). With one daughter in medical research, another receiving her MD in a few months, and a son who’s a pre-med major, I get plenty of encouragement (and by that, I mean nagging) to stay healthy myself and to serve as an advocate whenever I can for preventative health care.

Cancer is a heartless, relentless adversary. It sneaks in stealthily to claim its victims. It is up to us to be vigilant against it. In addition to regular screenings, we should be eating more fiber, fruits and vegetables, and less fat. If you smoke, please consider quitting. For myself, I need to lose a few pounds and be more physically active, since writing is a sedentary job and lack of exercise has been linked to colon cancer.

If finances are holding you back from having your regular screenings, believe me, I understand. I’m self employed. I carry a very high deductible just to afford the premiums. Health care reform must be high on the new administration’s agenda. Too many uninsured and underinsured Americans are dying because they can’t afford routine preventative care. But there are ways to get those screenings, by working with the providers to make payments, if necessary, or through public assistance programs. Talk to your doctor.

If embarrassment or fear or a busy schedule are holding you back from any of those screenings, I urge you to reconsider. I will make time and budget for that second colonscopy next year (they’re recommended only every  five to ten years if nothing is found in the first screening). I won’t look forward to it, but I’ll have it. Cancer may take me some day, as it has so many members of my family — but I’m not ready yet. I have more things to do, more places to see, more books to write.

I’m in this fight for my life.

Probably the most common question I am asked as a writer is, “Where do you get your ideas?” My answer is always that ideas, for me, come from everywhere. From the newspaper, from songs, from snippets of conversation I overhear in restaurants (I’m a compulsive eavesdropper, I’m afraid). From anecdotes other people tell me, though I rarely use an incident exactly as it happened. My family has grown accustomed to telling me an amusing thing that happened to them, only to find an altered version of the tale pop up later in one of my books.

Long before I was published, I worked in a clerical office for a retail chain every summer during high school and college. I heard all kinds of stories there, some of which sparked ideas in books I wrote years later. One of the women in the department came in laughing one morning about a strange phone call she’d had the night before. It had been storming, and the reception had not been particularly good, so when she got a call from her dad and couldn’t hear him very clearly, she didn’t question that something about his voice sounded different. They chatted for nearly ten minutes before they realized that he’d called a wrong number. It wasn’t her dad.

Several years later, after I was published, I remembered that incident and I used it as the inspiration for a book I wrote for Harlequin Temptation (HOTLINE, 1991). In my version of the story, a single man dialed that wrong number, reaching a single mom. Thinking at first they were talking to their siblings, they quickly realized their mistake, and while laughing at the situation, a spark of interest ignited between them. That call led to others, and an ensuing romance — with, of course, complications to overcome before their happily-ever-after ending. I was pleased with the resulting story, and it was well received.

Category romances (the numbered, series books published by Harlequin and Silhouette, such as Special Edition, Desire, etc) stay on the shelves only a month, though they are occasionally reprinted a few years later, so by 1999, HOTLINE had long been out of print. In October of 1999, I received an email from a librarian I had never met telling me that she thought someone had plagiarized that book. She gave me the name of the author and the offending book, which was on the shelves even then.

My first reaction was that she must be mistaken. Authors frequently joke about unintentional similarities between our books, saying that there are only so many ideas and Shakespeare already used them all. Similarities of ideas is not plagiarism, nor is a book or movie that is inspired by another story (Romeo and Juliet, West Side Story and Valley Girl are examples of three totally different takes on the same idea — star-crossed lovers from incompatible backgrounds). An idea itself can’t be copyrighted, only the words used to convey that idea. So, skeptical, I popped into a bookstore and picked up a copy of her book.

I knew after reading the first page that this was more than a coincidence. The scene was mine. The words were mine. Page after page of that book had been lifted wholesale from HOTLINE. Sometimes she paraphrased my words, but there was no doubt that she had taken my book line by line, changing only the names and a random phrase or two. A hotel room described in my book was described exactly the same way in “hers.” She’d added a subplot that had nothing to do with my story, but in all, over a hundred pages of my book were blatantly stolen by her and passed off as her own.

Continue reading “Stolen thoughts” →

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.