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I’ve mentioned before that my husband and I don’t entirely share the same taste in entertainment — especially when it comes to television programming. Neither of us cares for “reality” TV, preferring scripted shows for the most part, though I do rather like some of the talent competitions. “So You Think You Can Dance” is my favorite non-scripted program, but I also enjoy “American Idol,” “Project Runway” and several of the Food Network competitions, such as “Chopped” and “Iron Chef America.” I watch hours of American football in season, whereas John’s preference in non-scripted entertainment would be found on the History or Discovery Channel when he isn’t watching twenty-four hour news coverage (yawn). We both enjoy “Mythbusters” and “Dirty Jobs.”

As for scripted programming, we share a few favorites. We’re currently watching summer series such as “Eureka,” “Warehouse 13,” “White Collar” and — my favorite — “Burn Notice.” While John enjoys all of these for the most part, I probably like them even better than he does. All are a little too “light and fluffy” for his taste. His favorite shows are gritty, rather grim (in my view) procedurals. I prefer clever repartee, happy endings, romance — and okay, cute guys with guns. Give me “Castle” over “Law and Order” any time.

He and I have talked often about what draws us to different shows. We’ve come to the conclusion that there is one particular criterion that makes the difference for us. I absolutely have to like the main characters portrayed in the programs I watch. They have to be people I’d want to know, maybe to hang out with, people who make me care if they stay safe until the end of each episode, and who make me want to see them ultimately happy at the end of the series. Sometimes I’ll decide within the first few minutes of a new show that I can’t stand anyone in it and have no interest in spending more time with them. There’s an ad campaign now for an upcoming Fox comedy that features a character I developed an instant and irrational dislike for — needless to say, I won’t be watching that show. Probably won’t even give it a chance, I’ll admit somewhat sheepishly.

That drives John crazy. He doesn’t really care if he likes the characters as long as their stories are interesting. When he crashes in front of the tube at the end of a day, he simply wants to be entertained with a reasonably well-crafted plot. He can’t even always tell you the names of the characters. I can tell your their names, their back stories, their clothing style and their motivation (maybe I embellish a little in my own mind).

There have been series that I’ve watched regularly … until the writers take the characters past a point I can’t forgive, what I’ve heard referred to as character assassination. Once that line is crossed, I turn the channel and never return, even if I have been a regular watcher to that point. For example, when initially sweet and charming Adam cheated on “Jane” in Joan of Arcadia — not only cheated on her, but was cruelly hurtful  to the emotionally-disturbed girl he was using — I turned off the TV and never watched that show again. I might have ranted. There have been a few other series I’ve abandoned because central characters became unlikeable to me, even though I had watched and enjoyed the programs until that point. I actually get angry in some of those situations — which bewilders poor John no end. “You know they aren’t real?” he’ll ask tentatively.

That’s the problem. They’re a little too real to me. And I have to like them to watch them — or read about them, in the case of books. The characters can have flaws — in fact, I prefer them a little less than perfect — but ultimately, there has to be something within them that makes me care about them. I’m not actually that hard to please; both in real life and in fiction I tend to be easily intrigued by people. I watch a bit too much TV and too many movies and read too many books, because I like spending time with all those imaginary friends. I’ll watch reruns of my favorite series or repeatedly watch movies I like or reread favorite books just so I can revisit those old pals and be entertained by them again. But I have to like them.

Is the difference between my preference and John’s due to gender? Am I more interested in characterization and he in plot because of the difference in female/male brain wiring? Is it because I’m a writer? I create characters every day, and they become entirely too real to me — if they weren’t real to me, I couldn’t bring them to life for my readers. I hope the readers like them — though I’m sure certain characters didn’t resonate at times for some readers, even if they like my other books. After all, differences in tastes and preferences (even between myself and my hubs of 34 years), regardless of the reason, explains why there is such a wide selection of entertainment available — and I, for one, am grateful for that variety.

The winner of the July 1 drawing is Barb Steinmetz. Congratulations, Barb! I’ll post details for the next drawing soon.

Happy Canada Day to all my friends up north. This day also kicks off the long Independence Day weekend celebration here in the U.S. We’ll be celebrating rather quietly here. Tonight my husband, son and I will follow a family tradition and watch the fireworks display at the high school football field in our town in central Arkansas, usually followed by an ice cream treat at the local Sonic. With our daughters living on different coasts now, it’s just the three of us. Our son will be in his own apartment and a busy medical student this time next year, so we’ll savor this little family ritual with him tonight.

Whatever holiday you’re celebrating this weekend, I hope you find time to appreciate the simple pleasures. Stay safe! I hope you’ll visit me here again soon.

I have a weakness for estate sales. Not garage sales or tag sales, but those events at which an entire house is opened to the public and everything inside is tagged with little price stickers. Sometimes the homes are fairly new, the contents department-store tidy; perhaps the owners are moving away and either can’t take everything with them or want all new decor. I’ve been to quite a few of those, especially when I’ve accompanied my three kids as they looked for good, used furnishing for their first apartments. Sometimes I go with my woodworker husband on his never-ending search for tools. But that sort of sale doesn’t draw me often.

I’m especially intrigued by older homes that were occupied for many years by the same family. Often, they’re crammed full of “stuff” for sale. Furniture, appliances, kitchen items — including partially used boxes of food or jars of spices in the pantry. Bric-a-brac, books, yard tools, clothes, shoes, Christmas decorations. Wrapping paper, office supplies, linens. Half-used bottles of cologne, old gloves and hats and purses and costume jewelry. Creased black and white photos of unidentified men, women and children in clothes from the ‘forties, ‘fifties and ‘sixties. Old records and eight-track tapes, battered dolls and board games.  Unopened gift sets of body lotions and stationery, coffee mugs stamped with “Grandma” or “Papa.” Canes and walkers and shower benches giving evidence of the aging of the former homeowners. Even, once, a set of dentures hanging from a shoestring in the bathroom.

Several established estate sale companies operate in central Arkansas, and my husband and I are on the email lists, so that we’re notified of upcoming sales. We don’t go every week — more like every few months, when a particular sale intrigues us or we simply need a day out of the house. Still, we’ve attended enough of them that we’ve actually made friends among the other “regulars” who line up a half hour or so before the doors open and spend that time chatting and laughing, comparing notes on the other sales scheduled for that day, frequently checking their watches. Some are dealers looking to make a profit in flea market booths or on-line auctions, others are collectors on a never ending quest for their own personal addiction. I have a thing for cut-glass toothpick holders; I don’t know why, they just seem to jump into my hand and follow me home. My husband bee-lines straight for the workshops and garages.

More often than not, we leave the sales empty-handed. I’m not usually there to buy. I enjoy the camaraderie, the rare time away from the computer, maybe lunch out afterward. And I am fascinated by the history I find within those walls, especially in the old homes. I’m not seeing an old rocker marked with a bright yellow price sticker. I see a mother rocking the child who played with that old doll on sale across the room. The set of old China displayed on a vintage dining room table was carefully chosen by someone — was it a wedding gift? Or collected a few pieces at a time over many years? The jaunty, net-trimmed hat and short white gloves from the ’50s would have been worn with some of the glittering costume jewelry for a special evening out.

This past week, my husband, son and I attended a sale in an old Victorian house on the Arkansas Historic Register. There were actually two old homes, side by side, that had been owned by the same family. Uneven wood floors, very high ceilings with dangling, tarnished brass fixtures, narrow wooden staircases, small rooms arranged in rabbit-warren confusion, tiny bathrooms with rust-sprinkled iron tubs, layers of peeling, yellowed wallpaper, the smell of must and dust and decades. I could hardly tell you now what was offered for sale; I was too preoccupied wondering what it would have been like to live in that house more than a hundred years ago, what views the family would have seen from the oddly-shaped windows, how many generations graced those rather dark, high-ceiling rooms. I spent quite a while time drifting through those old houses. Longer than my son would have liked, I’m sure, though he waited graciously enough while I daydreamed, even though he was impatient to visit a couple of nearby furniture stores on his search for a few more things for his new apartment. He’s not really interested in dusty, fussy antiques at this point in his life.

Some people I’ve talked with about my estate sale habit tell me they find those sales sad, all those now-abandoned mementos of lives gone by, often for sale now because the homes’ occupants have passed on or can no longer live alone. While I agree that there is an element of sadness, and perhaps of simple voyeurism, I like to think I’m paying tribute, in a way, to the owners of those things now for sale. I buy, occasionally, contributing to the estate, and I try to view the contents with respect toward those who once used them. And I can’t help imagining my own home and possessions opened to the public someday. What would it say about me if all the closets and cubbyholes of my life were set out on display, the things I’ve collected or used or stashed forgotten in a drawer, the few shopping mistakes crammed at the back of the closet, the little gifts or souvenirs admired briefly, then tucked away somewhere in this home where we’ve lived for more than twenty years? How much of me is revealed in the things I’ve bought or displayed or chosen to keep wrapped in tissue in boxes of memories from my youth and my children’s lives?

I’ll never forget attending a sale several years ago in a 1940s era home in an older Little Rock neighborhood and being immediately enthralled by the lovely antique furniture throughout the house. In a back bedroom, an old four-poster bed was covered with a beautiful, hand-tatted lace spread. Always drawn to bookcases, I moved to a particularly nice one that appeared to be walnut. At first, I was too busy studying the bookcase to notice the books it held. Then I realized it was filled with paperback romances, carefully arranged by author — including a section of my books, displayed in chronological order. As far as I know, I never met the woman who lived in that little house, who read my books in the bed with the lace spread. I hope those stories gave her a few hours of pleasure. I know I will always treasure the crystal bell I bought from the top of that bookcase. I like to think it serves as a continuing connection between us.

You never know what you’ll find at an estate sale.

♥♥♥

A HOME FOR THE M.D.,  on sale now — click Books Available Now! for more details.

Don’t forget to enter the drawing to be held July 1. Click Enter to Win! for instructions.

 

 

As I mentioned earlier, our son graduated from college in May and will be starting medical school in the fall. In the meantime, he’s preparing to move out of our home and into an apartment. He lived on-campus during college, so this will be his first experience as a renter. We spent a couple of weeks touring every apartment complex within quick commute of his med school — and he soon realized that a student’s budget does not necessarily stretch to some of the higher-end amenities presented so temptingly by the most expensive options. Finally, he selected a nice, more modestly-priced place in a good location and reserved an apartment that will become available in a few weeks. Now he’s becoming aware of the expense of furnishing and stocking his new home. At this point, his only household furnishings are a raised-panel oak bookcase his dad made for his dorm room, a computer desk handed down from his second sister, and a used washer and dryer set he found on Craigslist last week. His older sister gave him a like-new set of dishes, we provided new pots and pans, and his aunt passed along a few kitchen utensils and a gently-used smoothie maker. We’ll make a discount store run for small kitchen items like a can opener and pizza cutter (two staples for a bachelor kitchen), and in the meantime he’s keeping an eye on the classified ads and accompanying me to estate sales in search of furniture. Being the youngest child, he has slim pickings from our extras — his older sisters already raided our storage room.

It has been rather amusing watching our son pricing new furniture for the first time in his young life (his excellent tastes lead him straight to the leather couches and mahogany tables his just-starting-out budget cannot cover). Remembering the hand-me-downs and garage-sale-specials that filled our first home, his dad and I smile in sympathy. Starting out isn’t easy and in many ways it’s scary — and yet, it’s exciting, too. So many possibilities lie ahead for him, so many adventures and choices.

This is why so many of my books feature women and men on the brink of change in their lives … new homes or jobs, new challenges and definitely new loves! Life is full of possibilities, and it’s fun for me to take my characters to a major fork in their life journey and follow along as they make their choice about which path to follow.

A HOME FOR THE M.D., my Harlequin Special Edition available in stores now, centers around such a choice for the heroine, Jacqui Handy, and the hero, Dr. Mitch Baker. Jacqui has been searching for a home of her own since her rootless, unsettled childhood, and she has settled happily in Little Rock, Arkansas. Yet now she finds herself falling for a man who is tempted by his own growing restlessness to take off for footloose adventures. Both Jacqui and Mitch are forced to determine what “home” means to them — and how much they are prepared to gamble in pursuit of their dreams. I hope you enjoy their exploration of all the possibilities open to them as they stand poised on the brink of change.

Don’t forget to enter the drawing on July 1! Details can be found by clicking the Enter to Win! tab above.

 

 

My newest book, A HOME FOR THE M.D., is available in stores and on-line this week. It’s the second in the Doctors in the Family series, but it’s a stand-alone story, so it won’t be a problem if you missed the first one, THE M.D. NEXT DOOR (which should still be available from eHarlequin.com). For a synopsis of the story, click on the Books Available Now tab above.

You should notice something new about the cover of this book. Special Editions are now being published under the Harlequin imprint (formerly Silhouette Special Edition). I’ve always been extremely proud to be a Harlequin author and I’m pleased with their decision to consolidate all their lines under the long-respected Harlequin name. So look for A HOME FOR THE M.D. wherever Harlequin books are sold.

The final book in the Doctors in the Family series, DOCTORS IN THE WEDDING, will be published in January, 2012. I wrote most of that story while I was in Seattle, sitting at a cozy little desk in a University of Washington library. That book will mark a milestone in my writing career that I’ll reveal in a later post.

Now I’m brainstorming ideas for the following book. Coming up with new ideas is the fun part of my job. I tend to sit in my chair for several hours, staring into space while various possibilities float through my mind (and trying to convince my family that yes, I know it looks like I’m completely zoned out and lazy, but I’m really working!). Character names are very important to me. I can’t get to know the people in my story until I know their names. I skim through lists of baby names in books and on-line until certain names jump out and me and feel right for the still-vague personalities developing in my head. Naming my heroine and hero is always the first step in writing for me, and sometimes I change the names a couple of times before I find a “match” and can move on with the story.

Once I know the characters a bit, I start to outline their adventure. What do they do for a living? What do they want most in life — and what’s holding them back from having it? What have I recently heard, seen or read that inspires a new storyline? A song? A news article? A funny anecdote told by a friend or family member? Several years ago, someone gave me a shirt that read: “Careful, what you say may appear in my next book.” I’ve always gotten a laugh from that, because it’s so true. It’s rare that I use real events in my books, but often something I’ve been told plants a seed of an idea that grows into a full-blown scene. My friends and family are long accustomed to seeing me get distracted while scenarios buzz through my head. “There she goes again telling stories to herself.” I’m so fortunate that I’ve been able to share those stories  through my books.

So, back to work. There’s an occupational therapist named Kim who’s tapping at my shoulder, whispering suggestions into my ear. No one but me can see her just yet, but I hope to introduce her to you sometime next year. In the meantime — be careful what you say around any writers you happen to know!