celebrate THIS

You know PBW has a new novel out, right? And here’s the reason to celebrate:

Romance Paperback Bestsellers for Borders Group Inc. w/e 5/5/07

1. Night Lost by Lynn Viehl (Signet Eclipse)
2. When I Fall in Love by Lynn Kurland (Jove)
3. Susannah’s Garden by Debbie Macomber (Mira)
4. The Demon You Know by Christine Warren (St. Martin)
5. Wicked Fantasy by Nina Bangs (Berkley)
6. Kiss of Midnight by Lara Adrian (Dell)
7. The Wrong Hostage by Elizabeth Lowell (Avon)
8. Wolf River by Jill Gregory (Bantam)
9. Dark Seduction by Brenda Joyce (HQN)
10. Not Quite a Lady by
Loretta Chase (Avon)

illegal drugs

Here’s an embarrassing confession: I never have. Not once. Not anything. I was a law-and-order kid in (Catholic) high school. At age 17 I had more chance of finding my way to the moon than to a place to buy (pot? grass? what did we call it, anyway.) And I never started drinking because genetically, the way I metabolize alcohol makes me a prime candidate for alcoholism. Lots of family history to support that one.

So now if I need a bump, what do I do? Sugar is the obvious option, but it’s not very effective. Caffeine doesn’t agree with me. Exercise! That does it for a lot of people… I hate it. I can’t remember which one, but some astronaut said that he only had so many heart beats in his life, and he wasn’t wasting any of them on jogging. (And please don’t comment to tell me about the logical fallacy in that statement.)

As an A-type personality I used to daydream about speed. Speed, I was convinced, would be good. I could get more done. I would lose weight. Who needs to sleep anyway? But I’m not so self destructive that I would actually pursue this kind of fantasy.

People tell me how great it is that I’m writing full time. But you know what? I would love to be employed by somebody besides myself. It’s hard always having to motivate yourself. If I play solitaire all day long inspite of a looming deadline, there’s nobody there to poke me into activity. I’ve got to be a grownup all the time. Thus the fantasy (and it is a fantasy, I have no illusions about that) of some perfect drug that would provide that push.

Now I have to get back to work.

Pajama Jones, odd coincidences, Grey's

About a year ago I wrote a scene for Pajama Jones I want to talk about. Here’s the scene (I’m dropping you into the middle of it; he’s Dodge, she’s Julia).

“You’re good at reading people.”

A smile hovered at the corner of his mouth and then was gone. His face was dark with beard stubble but his eyes were clear and his gaze alert. He studied her for a moment as if her life story were written on her forehead.

“All I know about you is what other people have told me,” he said. “And what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I discount about eighty percent of the first, and thirty percent of the second.”

Julia wished now that she had sent him on his way. She said, “Let me guess, you heard the mercy killing story.”

He didn’t look surprised or embarrassed or even particularly interested. Any of those things would have been irritating, but this lack of reaction was oddly off putting in its own way.

“People like a tragedy,” Dodge said. “And they like you. If so many people who think so much of you are worried about you, maybe there’s a reason.”

Goose flesh rose on Julia’s nape and arms and with that a feeling of acute disorientation and embarrassment, as if she had caught sight of someone spying on her through the bathroom window. That this image was off and inadequate only added to her discomfort. She swallowed hard until she was sure of her voice and then she said. “Look, I know they mean well. But that particular story is just plain fantasy.” she stopped to gather her thoughts. “Tell me, do strangers always open up to you?”

“It’s been known to happen,” said Dodge. “Listen, I’ll tell you something about me, and maybe you’ll feel easier.” He stuck out his hand and Julia took it automatically, a big hand, calloused for reasons she couldn’t imagine.

“Hi, my name is Dodge, and I’m a claustrophobic.”

Julia put her free hand to her mouth and hiccuped a laugh. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, but–“

“Sure it’s funny,” Dodge said. “When I got to the point I could laugh about it, I knew I was really getting better. Sometime I’ll run through my stock of claustrophobia jokes.”

“But you had to get out of your apartment–“

“I’m a recovering claustrophobic,” he said. “I had a relapse.”

Julia said, “You could let go of my hand now.”

“Oh. Sure.”

To fill the odd silence Julia asked a question she would not have allowed herself even a half hour ago. “Does the claustrophobia have anything to do with –” she paused.

“My nomadic ways? Sure. Of course if you had asked me that a few years ago, I would have denied it.”

There were questions she might have asked, but discomfort won out over curiosity. And Gloria, big dopey dog that she was, somehow sensed that Julia needed a distraction and came over to drop a stick on the ground in front of them, her whole hind section wagging hopefully. Dodge threw it and Gloria disappeared into the shadows.

Dodge said, “So how did your husband die?”

His tone calm and matter of fact. Julia took stock, and found that she could answer.

“We thought he had the flu. Fever, aches, tired all the time, but he just kept popping aspirin and refused to go to the doctor. Then he collapsed on the street outside his office. By the time I got to the hospital he was already out of emergency and in cardiac intensive care. Bacterial endocarditis was the diagnosis, and then heart failure. He died waiting for a heart transplant.”

By coincidence, Grey’s Anatomy has had a somewhat similar storyline going. Now, I really like Grey’s Anatomy particularly because the writers are so committed to complex characters. People who make mistakes. Sometimes they revel in their mistakes and push on to greater acts of self destruction; sometimes they get a little wiser. They deal with the stuff that comes their way, or they run from it.

Any good story — in a book or on a screen — will provide this kind of complex characterization. I put my characters through hoops to see how they’ll react. That’s the way it works.

Now, Grey’s Anatomy’s second season ended yesterday, and in that ending was a resolution to this particular storyline. A very well done resolution, but now I wish I hadn’t seen it. Because I’ve been trying to write a flashback resolution scene for Julia, and I thought I had it pretty much blocked out, but all I can think about is how they did it on Grey’s. Let me assure you: nothing at all like Julia’s experience. So why does it keep following me around?

Oh yeah. Good storytelling.

today my daughter is seventeen

The year the Girlchild was born, the Berlin wall came down, students rushed tanks in Tiananmen Square, and the U.S. invaded Panama. The world was in high gear.

In 1994 she was five and full of proverbial beans. It was hard to keep her out of trees. It was next to impossible to keep up with her questions. She composed impromtu operas which were staged at a run through the house, in which she played all parts in underpants and a floating silk cape, curls flying around her as she leaped up on the couch to launch into an aria.

So now she’s seventeen. Once in a while we still see flashes of that wild and crazy five year old, but of course we are not always privy to the details. Sometimes snatches of conversation come to me. Two chickens, one with a neckband marked “1” and the other marked “3” set free in the school halls. Is this a fantasy, a plan, a fond memory? If I bide my time she will probably tell me. In a talkative mood she flings herself across our bed to rant about the death penalty, the woeful lack of junk food in the school vending machines, the latest social lunch time drama, Iraq.

Sometimes we are terrified, but we are always mindful of our good fortune. There’s still a whole lot of shaking going on.