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Ten years ago a stray tabby showed up on our patio with three kittens. The mama cat was barely more than a kitten herself, less than a year old. She was thin and very skittish, but the kittens were chubby and friendly, easily tamed. We found homes for the kittens rather quickly, but it took us a little while to win the mama cat’s trust – especially after we put her in a cage and took her to a vet to be spayed (we are big proponents of spaying and neutering all pets, especially ones that will be outside making more homeless litters).

We were a little leery of bringing the cat we’d named Izzie into our house. At the time, all three of our kids lived at home, and several of us suffer with allergies, especially my oldest daughter. But our neighbor had an unfenced dog that had already killed two cats, a pet rabbit and a young goat — just that we knew about — so we were afraid to leave her outside. I’d read that the average life of a cat outside is 18 months and inside is 18 years. So, she moved inside.

Within a few weeks, Izzie owned the house and we were simply here to serve her wishes. If there is such a thing as a “Stepford cat,” Izzie is it. She uses her litter box. She eats only dry cat food out of her bowl, is not picky about the brands, and won’t even touch any other food that is left out on counters or table. She has never even wanted to step outside since we brought her in; she actively avoids open doors. Maybe she remembers how hard it was out there, especially compared to how very easy it is for her inside.

From the start, Izzie became my son’s cat. Actually, he became hers. If he is in the house, she is at his heels or in his lap. She loves all of us, and will sit in whatever lap is handy — if David’s isn’t available. Now that he is a sophomore in college, she soaks up his company when he’s home on the weekends. I took the photo above yesterday when he was here, stretched out on the couch with his laptop on his chest in a typical teenage pose and Izzie was on his legs, hugging him as if she knew he’d be leaving again in a few hours.

Continue reading “A cat’s life” →

Happy Halloween. I hope it’s a fun and safe day for everyone.

Halloween always makes me think of a couple of ghost story romances I wrote back in 1996 for Harlequin Temptation. Titled A VALENTINE WISH and A WISH FOR LOVE, they were the stories of two ghosts, twin sister and brother, who were murdered in the 1920s and found love — and a second chance at life — in the present. This was a totally different type of story for me, and I know my editor was surprised when I told her about my idea. I still remember that call:

“Er, um, I have this idea for a new book.”

“Great. What’s it about?”

“Well, the heroine is, um, dead.”

“She’s … dead?”

“Yeah. And she has this twin brother who’s also dead. And who’ll be the hero of the following book.”

“So, er, Gina — have you hit your head lately?”

Okay, so maybe it didn’t go quite like that. My editors at Harlequin and Silhouette have always been wonderfully receptive to new ideas. But I think she was surprised, since I hadn’t written any woo-woo type stories before that.

From my conversations with other writers, I know that I’m not alone in being thrilled and surprised when a book is “easy” to write. Most books are hard-fought, every word a battle to get on the page. As “Red” Smith said: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” But every once in a very long while, a story comes fully formed to our mind. The words flow and the characters come to life, seemingly directing their story on their own. This is what happened to me with those two books. I don’t know where the idea came from, but it was suddenly just there. Almost as if Anna and Ian — my two ghost twins — were whispering what to write in my ear. I’ve never written any two books more quickly or more easily, not before or since. It was … well, almost spooky.

I’ve heard many writers complain about characters who “took over” their books. Who behaved in ways the author never expected. Said things the author never intended for them to say. Secondary characters who were supposed to remain quietly in the background, and yet refused to be ignored, becoming more and more insistent until they almost overshadowed the present story, often demanding follow-up books of their own. Yes, I’ll admit it. This has happened to me. Often. No one said writers are quite … well, normal. As Stephen King has said, “Most fiction writers are schizophrenic. Which makes us crazy, I suppose.” He adds that we create these worlds and these people – and then we come to believe in them. (I have to admit, I’d rather live in the world I create than his. As much as I admire his ability to tell a great story, his imagination is decidedly twisted).

So now it’s Halloween again, and I’m writing a Christmas story. Which means that it’s time for me to leave the blog and go open a vein to begin my work day. So, again, happy Halloween everyone. May all your own projects come easy today.

A couple of years ago, a Harlequin editor I’d worked with on several projects in the past gave me a call. “What do you know about NASCAR?” she asked. Without hesitation, I replied, “I can tell you the top twelve drivers in points this season. What else do you need to know?” “You just answered my question,” she said with a laugh.

She explained that Harlequin and NASCAR were collaborating on a series of romances set in the world of stock car racing, and she asked if I would like to participate. It sounded like fun, so I signed up. I spent the next few months immersed in research. I read Mark Martin’s NASCAR FOR DUMMIES and Jeff Hammonds’ REAL MEN WORK IN THE PITS, among other biographies and behind-the-scenes books. Another book I can highly recommend is SUNDAY MONEY by Jeff McGregor. It’s a funny, on-the-road account of a year the author and his wife, neither overly familiar with the sport, followed the NASCAR circuit in an RV. Although I was a fan, I had never attended a NASCAR race and I wanted to make sure I did all I could to make my writing authentic.

The highlight of my research was a trip to Lowe’s Motor Speedway in North Carolina with my editor and four other NASCAR writers. We were taken on a tour of the Rousch Racing headquarters and of the track during a practice session. Both tours were fascinating. It was so exciting to walk through the fab shop and explore inside Carl Edwards’ hauler. And the track was eye-opening — or should I say, ear-splitting. You really can’t imagine how loud those cars are until you’re standing at the track with those huge, hungry engines screaming around you. Almost the first thing I saw upon arrival was a car hit the wall, so I heard that nervewracking noise, as well. Fortunately, no one was hurt. I saw the rows of haulers with famous faces milling among them, the frantically busy garages, the intense concentration focused on every detail of the cars’ and drivers’ performances. It really brought to life what I’d seen on my TV screen every Sunday.

Continue reading “Fast cars and romance” →

Yes, I know it’s almost Halloween, but it seems more like Christmas at my house lately. I’m working on a story for a 2009 Harlequin NASCAR Christmas anthology, and my husband, a gifted woodturner, has been making Christmas ornaments. I keep forgetting what month it really is! By the time Christmas actually arrives, I’ll have moved on. My next book, the first of a new Silhouette Special Edition series about a group of harried medical students, begins in the fall, so I’ll be moving back a season. Is it any wonder I sometimes lose track of time?

Getting lost in a story is an occupational hazard for writers. I could be working on a Thanksgiving story in June, or a steamy summer tale in February. To set the mood for my writing, I use music … for example, I’ve been listening to Christmas songs while working on this story. All I have to do is slip on my headphones and let Bing Crosby start crooning in my ear, and it isn’t October anymore. It’s December, and my racecar driver hero is wearing a Santa suit while he tries to charm a skittish single mom.

Music has always been an integral part of my life, and my writing process. Though I only dream of having a beautiful singing voice or a talent for playing an instrument, there is almost never a time when I don’t have music playing around me. When I recently bought an external hard drive to make sure I didn’t lose anything of importance on my computer, I actually backed up my extensive music library before I backed up my works in progress!

I spend way too much time (and money, 99 cents at a time) at iTunes, downloading songs for my book “soundtracks.” When I wrote a couple of ghost stories for Temptation several years ago, I played the soundtrack to the movie “Somewhere in Time” over and over. It just seemed to fit. Another book featured a couple who enjoyed ballroom dancing, so I played the Reader’s Digest CDs of standard piano tunes while I wrote their dance scenes. Each book has a playlist that evokes a mood for me, and most of those lists would make no sense at all to anyone else. I might have Rod Stewart’s standards and some tunes from the ’80s mixed in with Linkin Park and Death Cab for Cutie, all on one playlist. The juxtaposition of those particular songs have meaning to me within the story I’m writing. Strange, I know — but then writers tend to be a little … let’s just say “quirky.”

The writing process is different for almost every writer. I know a few who can write only in total silence. Others who can’t listen to anything with lyrics while they write. Still others who listen only to classical or period pieces. But whenever the subject comes up among my writing friends, as it often does, it seems that most use music in some way or another to set a specific mood for their writing, as I do. I’ve had lots of musical recommendations from writer friends (necessitating even more 99 cent shopping sprees).

Now, it’s time for me to slip on my headphones again. Frank Sinatra is waiting to wish me a “merry little Christmas” while I find out exactly how this dashing racecar driver can convince a wary single mom that he is just what she wants to find beneath her Christmas tree. When this story is finished, I’ll start assembling a soundtrack for my next book (I already suspect The Fray’s “How to Save a Life” will be on the list).

I woke up grumpy today. I’d spent the past three days helping my dad dispose of the last of my mother’s things as he prepares to move out of the house he shared with her for thirty years, and which he sold earlier this month. It was a difficult task, in many ways. We foolishly decided with just over a week’s notice to hold a moving sale. He and my sister-in-law and I gathered everything throughout the house that hadn’t already been claimed by offspring or grandchildren and arranged it on tables in the front two rooms of the house. There was a lot of “stuff.” My mother was sentimental, and kept everything anyone ever gave her, which included a lot of trinkets and angels and glassware and figurines. She was also a collector of inexpensive souvenirs from trips she took with her sisters and her friends. Little bells and spoons and mugs and shot glasses. None of which were particularly valuable, but all of which were valuable to her. Literally hundreds of items that we set out for display, then plastered with little yellow price tags on which we tried to determine the value of her treasures. Daddy had already moved out the beds, except for the one he slept in, so I spent two nights on a love seat — not exactly comfortable sleeping arrangements.

Our sale was less than successful, considering all the work we put into it. Their house is in town, but off the main roads, so gets little drive-by traffic. Because we had little notice to plan the sale, we were too late to do much advertising. And it was the first weekend of deer season — a big deal in Arkansas. The event was emotional for those who knew my mom. Family members and friends dropped by, some of whom had not visited the house since she died of cancer in August of last year at a still-vital and active 75 years old. More than a few burst into tears when they entered, which certainly didn’t help me. By the end of the second day of the sale, even after we gave away mementos to those sentimental family members and friends, there were still dozens of little items sitting on the tables. My son and I boxed up everything to take to local charities. It was difficult for me to part with the things, because they had all belonged to my mother, but I couldn’t keep it all. I have enough “stuff” of my own, and I had already brought home those possessions of my mom’s that had the most sentimental value to me. So by the end of the day yesterday, I was exhausted, sore and emotionally drained — as was my poor dad.

Continue reading “Sonic joy” →