Pink or blue?

I teach an online class for a college in San Francisco. That is, the payroll office and the Help Desk are in San Francisco; I'm at home in a suburb thirty miles away and my students are all over the world.

The syllabus states: This course examines the impact of scientific thought and technological innovation on major cultures of the modern world. It includes analysis of the acquisition, application, and adaptation of technology in pre-industrial, industrial, and post-industrial societies.

Okay, it's a bit academic, but that's to be expected in a university catalog. Really, what the course allows me to do is discuss key events in the history of science that have changed cultural patterns and beliefs. Topics include breakthroughs from the printing press (the Church at the time condemned it as an instrument for spreading the devil's work) to stem cell research and cloning (now being condemned by some).

It's challenging and exciting to explore these issues with my students. Advances in science and technology have given every age more conveniences and life-saving medical procedures as well as new problems and new moral issues.

Remember the divorcing couple who were arguing over who would get her frozen eggs? I don't think that was a problem in my grandmother's time. And all the cases of how long to sustain life with technology? Not a problem in the Old West, for example.

With an international student body working in cyberspace, I often don't know the gender of some of my students. At first this was disconcerting. How could I know how to respond to a posting if I didn't know whether it came from a man or a woman? I've had first names such as Jigme, Myint-San, Widya, Lieu, and many more that are unpronouncable. I longed to have a photo, an audio file, or some indication of the student's gender. Maybe he or she would refer to a wife or husband. Of course in some states, that still wouldn't be a clue.

Even some "American" names are gender-neutral. Was the Sean I had last term a girl, like the actress Sean Young, or a guy, like the actor Sean Penn? How about Jordan? Lee? Alex? Casey?

Short of asking outright, which I don't want to do, I have no way of knowing the gender of these students. Every year that I've taught this class on line, there is at least one student whose gender I never learn, not even as I assign the final grade.

Eventually, I realized that it shouldn't matter whether I'm reading the views of a man or a woman. Does it help to know the gender perspective of a person if the issue is end-of-life technology or gene therapy? Or does it hinder our ability to listen objectively?

Pink or blue. Does it matter?

Next week: Blast-off for DYING TO BE THIN!

So, the official launch for DYING TO BE THIN is Tuesday, October second! Starting Tuesday, you should be able to find it at a bookseller near you (or, as always, you can order it online at http://www.barnesandnoble.com/, http://www.walmart.com/, http://www.amazon.com/, and other online booksellers.)

DYING TO BE THIN tells the story of Kate Gallagher, a spunky, slightly chunky TV news producer-turned-sleuth.Kate’s often been told that she has the “face” for TV—it’s her body she needs to work on. So when she gets dumped by her boyfriend and laid off from her TV producer’s job in the same week, she decides to trade in her Whoopie Pies for thinner thighs, and she heads down to Durham, North Carolina to enroll in an exclusive diet clinic (read: fat farm).

After just one day at the Hoffman Diet Clinic, Kate is about ready to sell her soul for a white mocha with a coffee cake chaser. She’s working free-lance on an Extreme Makeover story—starring herself—while enduring a diet of petrified fruit, tasteless gruel, sunrise walks, and loony-tunes neighbors.

But when the clinic’s head diet doctor turns up—dead—with a pair of fondue forks where his eyes should be, Kate totally loses her appetite. And now that the menu features murder, she realizes—she has a breaking story on her hands.

You can find out more about the series and read the first chapter of DYING TO BE THIN at my web site: http://www.kathrynlilley.com/

Okay, because I can’t wait, here’s a preview:

A Big Fat Mess

I began to wonder whether I’d made a colossal mistake by plunking down my severance pay a down payment for this program. What kind of looney tunes place is this?

“Is torture by food du jour included in our two K a week?” I whispered to Evelyn.

She shrugged. “He’s just showing us that we have to change our eating ways,” she said. “Dr. Hoffman says we fatties have to totally reprogram our brains.”

Reprogram sounded like a cult term. Hopefully they didn’t serve Diet Kool-Aid in the dining room. Cult or no, I was stuck with this place now. Durham’s Channel Twelve was expecting me to produce my weight loss series here. Maybe I could turn the whole assignment into an expose. That’d be a much more interesting story than watching my thighs disappear…

Breaking News!

Sunday, September 30, 2007 West Hollywood Book Festival. Look for Kathryn at the Sisters in Crime Los Angeles booth, 2:00 to 3:00.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007 Tuesday, approximately 8.45 AM PDTAM 1290 KZSB S anta Barbara

Wednesday, October 3, 2007 AdviceRadio.com Writers, Authors, n' More with Megan Willingham, 5 PM PDT

TV and Me

Okay, I admit it. I’m a television addict. Not that I spend all my time watching TV. Far from it. For one thing, I couldn’t and still be a writer. Or lawyer. Plus, I also love to read. And the daytime stuff generally doesn’t interest me. But I try to watch an hour or three during prime time whenever possible.

As a result, this time of year, when lots of new shows are born, is sometimes confusing to me. A lot of the new group sound interesting. That means I need to watch at least the beginnings of at least some. Often, I know enough after five minutes that a new show isn’t for me. For others, I like to watch an episode. Or more. Or a season. Or the whole thing... like Boston Legal. Its season premier was on Tuesday night, and I enjoyed it immensely, as always.

I tend not to get too wound up in reality shows. Dancing With The Stars is an exception, so its season premier this week made it harder to sneak into the various new series. Thank heavens for TiVo.

On Wednesday night, there were several new shows I had to watch. One was Haunting, on SciFi. It’s about a P.I. who sees ghosts that help him solve cases. Another was Bionic Woman, a remake of the old series that’s much darker.

Yet another was Life. I had to fight my husband over whether to watch that or Dirty, Sexy Money--which also sounded interesting, particularly since it’s supposed to have a lawyer as a main character. But the setting of Life trumped Money--or so I'd hoped--so we recorded the latter and watched the former.

Why was that? Well, some of Life was filmed at L.A. Center Studios. Or at least I was looking for it, since I recognized it in the teasers shown before the show debuted. Did I see L.A. Center Studios in the first show? I’m not sure. Not in exterior shots, although some of the interiors could have been there. But it definitely showed up in previews, so I was watching for it.

The main building at L.A. Center Studios and its unique walkways and other locales appear often in films, commercials and TV shows--such as in the series Numbers, which I also watch, and not just because I find solving mysteries by formulas fascinating. No, it’s also the locale.

Why? Well, like Kendra Ballantyne, the protagonist of my pet-sitter mysteries, I’m a lawyer. Fortunately, I’ve never stumbled over dead bodies. Nor do I go to court very often, as she does, since I’m a real estate transactional attorney, not a litigator. For a long time, I was an in-house real estate attorney for Union Oil Company of California, dba Unocal. Some years back, the decision was made to sell the property known as Unocal Center, located across the freeway from downtown Los Angeles. I helped in the negotiation for a sale to a developer who intended to take down the 1950s-era office building and related structures and replace them with a marvelous new office complex. I also helped in the negotiation for Unocal to become the anchor tenant in what I later came to call the “phantom building,” since the bottom fell out of the L.A. real estate market and the developer never built that building or anything else as part of the planned new complex. Unocal moved its corporate offices elsewhere. Eventually, the developer resold the property.

Now, here is what I consider the supreme irony of this situation. The property owner, ultimately, was L.A. Center Studios, which turned the whole area into a film studio. The Unocal building, which was supposed to have been torn down, survived as part of that studio complex. Unocal, however, no longer exists. It was merged into another major oil company a few years ago. I adored Unocal and its original setting. I don’t get tired of shrieking, as I watch TV, “There’s Unocal!” I unfortunately didn't get to do that Wednesday night, even though I remained intrigued with Life.

The other theme, as you can probably see, is that I enjoy checking out shows where there’s adventure and, preferably, mysteries are solved. I don’t always get into those that become the most popular, but give me detection with an interesting theme and I’m sometimes hooked. Am I missing some good shows this way? Probably, but I don’t intend to spend all my time by the TV--just an excess.

Now I just have to figure out which of the new series I like well enough to continue watching. Unfortunately, or fortunately, not all of them are filmed at L.A. Center Studios. I’ll at least watch Life again and hope, soon, to see the right exterior shots.

--Linda

The Things You Learn . . . and Remember

Okay I have this big piece of embroidered silk one of my characters threw away. My heroine retrieved it. It has finally been identified as a very valuable antique, from China. It was stolen from there and stolen several more times before ending up in America. Who is responsible for getting it back to China? It's not a big scene in the book, but who is the burly man (or woman) in a suit who picks it up, and how does she send it back? FedEx?

Oddly enough, the federal agency in charge is Customs, or as it is known now US Customs and Border Enforcement, specifically an investigation sub-division called ICE, Investigations and Customs Enforcement.

The things you learn.

We have a truly terrific cat, an orange and white neutered male named Snaps. Last night I was running down the list of terrific cats I have owned: Skipper, Lady Felicity (from Cheshire, England), Harley, Friday, Wobbles, Sophie, Stinker. Sophie is the cat owned by my sleuth. She's not bright, she's not clever, she's lazy and sweet and beautiful. And very, very fat. Her goal in life is thwart the diets Betsy is forever putting her on. It's fun remembering old friends and slipping them into the books, whether people or animals.

Going Gray

by Deb Baker

One day, feeling impulsive and bored, I decided to go gray.
“Let’s see my choices,” I said to my favorite hairdresser, settling into the salon chair and waiting for her to hand me a color chart. “Foxy gray, almost silver, would be perfect.”
She scrunched her nose while running her fingers through my chin-length hair, analyzing each overly processed strand. “You can’t do gray,” she snorted. “How about a few lowlights to offset the highlights?”
“Gray,” I insisted.
“You don’t understand. There isn’t a gray product on the market.”
“What?”
“No one wants gray hair.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, you’d be a really ugly gray. Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.”
I left the salon with the highs and lows she’d recommended, but I couldn’t stop thinking about going gray.
“Forget it,” my mother-in-law advised when I shared my idea. “I tried it. People treated me differently and I don’t mean that in a good way. Keep what you have.”
My friends at Curves had the same reaction. Scrunched noses and frowns to show distaste, a solid vote across each platform to keep what I had.
“You’re beautiful the way you are,” said my graying husband. “You look so young. Why ruin it? To tell you the truth, I’m thinking about dying my hair, getting rid of the gray.”
Hunh?
Guess what I did with all this well-meant advice? I chucked every scrap of it, right into my mental garbage can. For six months now I’ve been letting my hair go natural. And believe me, it looks like hell. Three inches of drab, salt-and-pepper, followed by six inches of over processed blonde. Yuck. The surprising thing is that my husband hasn’t even noticed. Once I’m completely gray, I bet you a buck he still won’t notice. My friends haven’t commented, leaving me wondering if they are as oblivious as my youth-chasing hubby.
Maybe I should whack it all off, use a little gel, give it some spikes, but then they’d notice for sure. I’m better off taking it slow.
Anyway….
Wasn’t I thrilled to find out that Anne Kreamer’s new book Going Gray came out this month to many rave reviews, including a feature piece in USA Today. Way to go Anne.
I have the hot little book in my hand and I’m going to start it the minute I finish writing this blog. I know she’ll have wonderful ideas for wearing flattering colors with my gray and for fending off friends and family who think I’m nuts. I have to say, though, that she looks like a zillion bucks, unlike me. I look like I can’t afford hair care.
But I’ve chosen the path and I’m sticking to it no matter where it leads. I’m not sure why this is important to me, although I’m an aging flower child. In the 70s I burned my bra. Is this my newest social statement? And, for once, am I on the cutting edge of a new trend?
What do you think? Care to join me?

Three Albums for Under $15

Remember my Writers Retreat Weekend?

Well, Judy and Donna liked the scrapbook page I made, but I could tell they were both disappointed that they didn't also have a way to preserve our memories. Unfortunately, I just don't have time to create a page for both of them, and one page wouldn't do all our photos justice. So I had to think about the situation... And I came up with an idea.

Ordering the Photos

First I loaded all my photos from that weekend onto my computer. Then I went through and sent the ones I really liked to SnapFish. By asking SnapFish to mail me the pictures, I spent a total of $8.99 for 3 sets of 14 photos. I ordered the photos in 4 x 6 inch sizes, but I also ordered a small white border that I will trim from each picture, so the final shots will be probably more like 3 3/4" by 5 3/4". Just right for fitting inside a 6" x 6" paper--and allowing for both landscape and portrait images.

Planning the Project

Next, I went to the store and bought two large pieces of Canson paper--$2.49 each--a paper that's been used by artists for years and which is relatively color-fast and stable. It's a nice weight. I drew a small schematic using graph paper. I marked the large paper and cut (which I'm never very good at--but I simply don't have a paper cutter that can handle a piece of paper 20" x 30"). After I did my cutting, I stacked my strips--6" wide and 24" long--one on top of each other and scored the paper at 6" intervals.

Assembling the Books

I sandwiched together my two sheets and sewed them down the center of squares 2 and 3. I folded the outside squares in to make a small book.

Creating the Cover

My new challenge was decorating the cover. It's pretty easy to do ONE cover, but I wanted all three to look alike. Here's the design I came up with:

I now have my three identical albums. The photos will arrive on Tuesday. I'll trim the narrow white edge away and adhere them to the pages. Since there are 14 photos and 16 pages, I'm fine with my decorated cover and a plain back cover.

The total cost for three small albums, including the photos, will be $14. That's less than $5 an album. Of course that doesn't cover the cost of thread, brads, ink or the decorative papers on the cover (which were scraps), but still, I think that's really reasonable.

What about you? Do you look for ways to economize when doing your hobbies? Have you avoided scrapbooking because you've heard it's too expensive? Well...if so, give this little project a try.

A surrogate home

Here are some of my purchases during a recent shopping trip:
a couch and ottoman, a TV set, an end table, a couple of vases, slippers, a clock, a teapot, a creamer, a plant, and an itty-bitty red polka dot bikini. It may look like a lot for one shopping trip, with few items even in the same department, but this spree was at a miniatures show, and nothing in the photo is over three inches tall.

It's so much easier to decide on a couch that fits in the palm of your hand than to buy a life-size couch. It's not just the cost difference, it's the commitment!

Here are a few reasons to own a dollhouse or miniature room boxes:

1. You can splurge on clothes, furniture, electronics, and plants, all on the same day, and not break a fifty. [Of course, there are pieces that are more like fine art and cost more than life-size, but I don't travel in those circles on any scale.]

2. You can do a complete kitchen remodel for about $15 and a half hour of your time.

3. Same with the bathroom. Add an hour and you can re-wallpaper the living room.

4. You can do a thorough cleaning of the whole house in less than ten minutes. One quick breath and the brush of a fingertip, and a room is dusted and vacuumed.

5. Laundry chores take only a few minutes. For example: the fabric of the polka dot bikini in the photo is very stiff and will need to be softened to look "real." This can be taken care of in two minutes by pouring transparent glue on it and rubbing it between your fingers. Compare that to the maintenance time for the three-sectioned, four-foot-long hamper in my life-size laundry room.

6. Your refrigerator and cupboards are always full. No wilted produce (Fimo dough is very hearty), or spoiled rib roast.

If it seems that I use my hobby as a hedge against real life, it's probably because it's true. I get all the satisfaction of cleaning and redecorating room after room without getting off my stool.

What does your hobby do for you??

How long did did happily-ever-after last for Cinderella?

This week, I’ve been thinking about Cinderella.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot, wondering how long she stayed "happy" after she landed the Prince and the castle? Was it eternal bliss, or did she eventually go back to worrying about more mundane matters, like pesky royal in-laws, or her pecking order at court? In a real-life example, Princess Diana certainly showed us that sometimes there's nada happily ever after.

By way of background, I should say that, of late, things have been going pretty darned well for me. Maybe not fairy-tale well, but definitely “pinch me—is it real?” kind-of-well.

Here’s a partial list of my current blessings:

My family is healthy and happy (this one has to come first on anyone’s list).
I have several great friends.
I have a new mystery series coming out.
I was recently gifted with a second house, a killer sports car, and some enviable bling.

Life, as they say, is good.

So you’d think that I’d be wandering around the house all the time with a big, goofy grin plastered across my face.

Instead, I find myself scrabbling for things to worry about. Like, how do I guarantee that my second book will surpass the first? Is my college-age daughter locking her doors at night? When is the Big One going to strike California (and what’s the deductible on my earthquake insurance?).

When nothing else works, I’ll watch CNN and fret about global warming, wondering if I should have eschewed my nice little Z4 for an earth-friendlier Prius.

I once read about a study that found that people have a default level of happiness—or unhappiness, whichever applies. This study posited that, long term, a change in an individual’s life circumstances is irrelevant to his or her “happiness” level. Oh, their moods will have ups and downs, depending on unknown and unpredictable factors such as a sudden trauma, or winning the Lotto. But according to this study, almost no matter what happens, most people eventually return to their original state of happiness. I recall the researcher saying that even someone hit by a devastating injury, such as Chris Reeve, probably eventually regained a semblance of his original level of happiness.

That must be why my mind is foraging for things to feel down about: life has removed some of its former obstacles, and somewhere in my brain, a gray cell is itching to even up the score. But from now on, whenever it does that, I’m just going to shout it down. Down, avenging brain cell! Down!

One reassuring thing: Cinderella seemed happy as a person, even before she met the Prince (at least, she was in the Disney version of the story). So odds are that this particular couple did live happily, ever after.

Anyway, that’s the fairy tale.

What about you? Do you have a “level set” of happiness (or unhappiness) that you eventually return to, no matter what brickbats or bouquets life throws your way?

Guilty pleasure of the week: The Biggest Loser

As a former fattie (okay, granted—I still have a ways to go—but at least I’m no longer morbidly obese), I experience a vicarious thrill whenever I watch Bravo TV’s The Biggest Loser.

As I watch a three-hundred person lug to the top of a seven-story tower, huffing every step of the way, a part of me cringes inside, thinking, “How can they put themselves out there like that?” But a part of me cheers them on, and gets caught up in the suspense as they step onto that scale at the end of the week to find out which team lost the most weight.

Confession time

Last year, when the producers of The Biggest Loser tempted the show’s dieters with a malevolent tower of cupcakes, I wanted to throw my diet tools in their general direction, to exact some payback.

So…?

So here’s the question: why am I so drawn to this show? I think it’s because it amplifies the everyday drama of my bathroom scale—Am I up? Am I down? Am I winning the battle? Losing?—writ large. Writ very large.

Fat people, it turns out, are the stuff of prime-time drama. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll sign off with a quote from no less an authority than The Bard himself:

Let me have men about me that are fat,

Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

On the other hand, I suspect that Cassius was a much more dramatic character than the “men…that are fat.”

Food for thought.

Blogging About Chatting

My website (www.LindaOJohnston.com) is hosted by NovelTalk.com. NovelTalk also does all sorts of other great promotion for me, and one of the items is to invite me to chat on their site when I have a book coming out.

That’s why I chatted last evening, at 6 PM California time, 9 PM Eastern.

This kind of chat is silent, except for the clicking of the keyboards--and my occasional chuckle, such as when people started punning about pet lawyers. It’s hosted by at least one of the really great NovelTalk people, which is a good thing because otherwise it would be hard to follow the multiple threads of conversation that result when people chat on line. The host asks the participants to be polite, to post a ? if they have a question and wait till they’re called on, in order, to ask it. That’s when I get the chance to leap in and tell them stuff they want to know--as long as it doesn’t give away something important in a book.

Some of the questions are standard kinds of things but fun--like, what made me start writing. Did I have a good answer? Not really--I started writing as a kid and never stopped.

Several questions revolved around whether people could pick up books in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery series out of order and still know what was going on. That’s always my intent, and I give information in each to introduce Kendra, why she’s both a lawyer and a pet-sitter, and anything else that I think might help a reader understand what’s happened before--and, hopefully, want to learn what happens next!

I got to briefly describe the plot of THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA--which involves pet-napping and the murder of one of Kendra’s fellow pet-sitters.

One chatter seemed obsessed with toilets and TP. I attempted to answer her questions cleanly.

Other people wanted to know my favorite books and authors, my keepers, and what I’d like to write that I haven’t. (Which is nothing--I write everything that inspires me. Of course, that doesn’t mean that it all gets published!)

Then there were the emoticons that people attached to what they wrote. Some were regular smiley faces. Others included smiling heads that rolled about the page. As I said during the chat, they started to mesmerize me!

In any event, I had a good time, and I hopefully told some new readers enough about my Kendra Ballantyne series that they might pick up a book or five. (Yes, THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA, out in October, is the fifth in the series.)

So... I guess I’m done blogging about chatting, at least for now. Maybe my next Internet feat should be chatting about blogging!

--Linda

ON THE HUNT

Sometimes research just come together nicely and a story is easily and beautifully enhanced. Sometimes it won’t and it isn’t. And sometimes it gets stuck halfway.

For example, my needlework designer (for the patterns in back of my books) and I have been talking for months about what the pattern should look like in Thai Die. Denise took lots of photographs of the patterns on the silk panels I brought home from Thailand, and we sort of – kind of – thought she could work up one of those. I had finally acquired some gold-colored silk floss from Thailand, and the idea was that the pattern would include some gold color so we could give a length of the floss to everyone who came to a signing. But the patterns all mono-colored as well as simple, so that was merely acceptable.

The novel has shifted a bit as it has appeared on my computer (this happens). The silk in the story is no longer Thai but Chinese, ever since I found some marvelous books and Internet sites showing how there exists some beautiful and extremely old (BC!) Chinese silk. There were mentions, almost asides, of embroidered ancient silk, but no photographs. As I wrote last week, I found this marvelous book on Chinese art with a black and white photograph of a piece of ancient embroidered silk. It was beautiful, exotic, and exactly right to use as a pattern.

Excited, I brought Denise to the Institute to have a look at it. She loved it! She brought out her electronic camera and took pictures of it. I went home to see if I could find a color photograph of the entire piece. I did, but it was so tiny it was useless. And another detail photo of the phoenix wasn’t in color. I can’t find more photographs anywhere. I have put out feelers to museums with no reply so far, and it has ballooned into an obsession simply because it shouldn’t be as difficult as it’s proving to be. This is an important piece of embroidery; why aren’t there photographs of it somewhere? (Or are they out there, and I’m just not going to the right places to see them?) Arrrrggghhhh!

It’s raining outside. There’s something about a rainy day that makes me feel all cozy. Perhaps it’s from my camping days, often spent miserable in the rain. Such misery makes me grateful for modern conveniences: a sound roof, electric lighting, flush toilets, a comfortable bed, a way to cook that doesn’t send smoke into my nose and eyes. The older I get, the more grateful I am not to be living back in the olden days. Time travel – which I used to dream of before I reached middle age and got this thing about dry underwear – will have to be for the young.

One bad thing about a rainy day: It makes me want to curl up with a good book, and with that deadline looming over me, I can’t.

A note on last week’s squirrel: turned out she had also been shot in the head, and the lead pellet was leaching into her blood stream, so she had to be put down.

Cracking a Case - Solving the Mystery of eBay

by Deb Baker

The plotline in my first doll collecting mystery, Dolled Up For Murder, involves internet intrigue and on-line auctions. I had such fun learning about eBay sales that I decided to sell something at the site. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I’m into the learn-to-be-organized book, Sink Reflections, but there are some things I can’t bring myself to throw away or give away. But maybe I could part with them for cold cash.

The setup wasn’t too complicated. The folks at eBay don’t want to make the site difficult for users to buy and sell, which is good business sense. Within minutes, I had an account with another user id and password to try to remember. My husband took a picture of my blue hobnail epergne – a centerpiece consisting of a sculpted blue dish with three flutes jutting out from the center. It had never graced our table, had been packed away so long I forgot about it until now.

I had second thoughts about parting with my treasure, searched my memory for a valid reason to repack it, couldn’t think of a single one, so I forced myself over to the computer. The listing was kind of fun. More research to determine its category and a reasonable price based on other listed epergnes. I came close to bidding on one, but caught myself in time.

I added a reserve (the lowest bid I would accept), downloaded the photo, wrote a catchy description, and clicked the completion button. Now all I had to do was wait for the bids to come in.

Nothing happened for two days.

Then a few bids. Then a private email for a bidder. “Please tell me the reserve so I can bid it.” What to do? Why not? The auction still had a few days to go (I’d decided on 7 days). Maybe someone else would get into the action. I emailed back. The reserve amount popped on the listing. Cool. I rubbed my hands together with glee. Getting into it, adrenaline starting to flow, anticipating the end.

The finale was anticlimactically. No one else bid. My epergne sold at reserve price, at the lowest I would accept, which wasn’t that bad. But I forgot about a few things, like the box and the bubble wrap, and packaging it so it wouldn’t break. I had remembered to include postage but hadn’t calculated it correctly, so there went some more profit.

But I still had a nice little chunk of change I wouldn’t have had if it was still taking up space in my attic. And I experienced the rush of my first eBay auction. I need more of that feeling and I need it now. I’m heading back to the attic. I’m going to strip it clean. And when I’m done there, I’m going to start on the basement, and then….

eBay, I love you.

Damaged Goods

Often scrapbookers tell me they are worried that they've journaled "too much." I'm not exactly sure how you can journal "too much." I think we often have important stories to tell, and we should give ourselves the space necessary. One of the most valuable stories we can share with our children are our life lessons. The following is a life lesson I hope I never forget!

**

The dust mites danced in the ray of sunshine that provided the only light in the rabbi’s office. He rocked back in his office chair and sighed as he stroked his beard. Then he took his wire-rimmed glasses and polished them absent-mindedly on his flannel shirt.

“So,” he said, “you were divorced. Now you want to marry this good Jewish boy. What’s the problem?”He nestled his grizzled chin in his hand and smiled softly at me.

I wanted to shriek. What’s the problem? First of all, I’m Christian. Second, I’m older than he is. Third - and not least, by any means - I’m divorced! Instead, I looked back into his soft brown eyes and tried to form the words.

“Don’t you think,” I stuttered, “that being divorced is like being used? Like being damaged goods?”

He settled back in the office chair and stretched so that he was looking at the ceiling. He stroked the scraggly beard that covered his chin and his neck. Then, he returned to his spot behind the desk and leaned toward me.“Say you have to have surgery. Say you have a choice between two doctors. Who are you going to choose? The one right out of medical school or the one with experience?”

“The one with experience,” I said.

His face crinkled into a grin. “I would, too,” he locked his eyes with mine. “So in this marriage, you will be the one with experience. That’s not such a bad thing, you know.“Often, marriages tend to drift. They get caught in dangerous currents. They get off course and head toward hidden sandbars. No one notices until it is too late. On your face, I see the pain of a marriage gone bad. You will notice the drift in this marriage. You’ll call out when you see the rocks. You’ll yell to watch out and pay attention. You’ll be the person with experience,” he sighed. “And believe me, that’s not such a bad thing. Not bad at all.”

He walked to the window and peeked between the slats of the blinds. “You see, no one here knows about my first wife. I don’t hide it, but I don’t make a big deal about it. She died early in our marriage before I moved here. Now, late at night I think of all the words I never said. I think of all the chances I let pass by in that first marriage, and I believe I’m a better husband to my wife today because of the woman I lost.”

For the first time, the sadness in his eyes had meaning. Now I understood why I chose to come talk to this man about marriage instead of taking an easier route and getting married outside both our religions. The word “rabbi” means teacher. Somehow I sensed he could teach me, or even lend me, the courage I needed in order to try again, to marry again and to love again.

“I will marry you and your David,” said the rabbi. “If you promise me that you will be the person who yells out when you see the marriage is in danger.”

I promised him I would, and I rose to leave.

"By the way,” he called to me as I hesitated in his doorway, “did anyone ever tell you that Joanna is a good Hebrew name?”

Sixteen years have passed since the rabbi married David and me on a rainy October morning. And, yes, I have called out several times when I sensed we were in danger. I would tell the rabbi how well his analogy has served me, but I cannot. He died two years after our wedding. But I will always be grateful for the priceless gift he gave me: the wisdom to know that all of our experiences in life make us not less valuable, but more valuable, not less able to love, but more able to love.

**Reprinted by permission of Joanna Slan (c) 1998 from Chicken Soup for the Couple's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark & Chrissy Donnelly and Barbara De Angelis, Ph.D. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

** Note: I've been told the PAX Network made this into a television show, but I've never seen it. They changed David's name to Dennis! Also, it's now been 24 years of marriage, but who's counting?

Charting progress

Very often at book events, we're asked, "Do you outline?" It sounds a little like the old commercial, "Does she or doesn't she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure."

It's sort of personal, but here's my answer: I don't color my hair, and I don't outline, but I do chart. I use a spreadsheet to chart my progress as I'm writing a novel.

For the second novel of my new miniatures series, I started on April 1, and I needed 80,000 words by August 1. The graphic shows a piece of the whole chart that represents my progress toward that goal. The first column is the date; the second column is the word goal for that day; the third column is my actual word count on that day; the fourth column tells me the percent of the novel that's done.

The blue line on the accompanying graph represents steady growth; i.e., 656 words a day every day. Those can be "good" words that will survive at the end, or a scene dump that needs a lot of editing. Some days I write more than I need, some days less. Every night I type in the number of words in the third column and compare it to the total (second column) I need to stay on track. I can also see what per cent of the total I have.

Excel software (in the hands of my tech support husband) does these calculations for you. Excel is part of the popular Microsoft Office Suite, so it's waiting there for anyone to take advantage of.

The pink line on the graph climbs every night according to the number I put in the third column. It's a great thrill to see the pink line climb at a greater slope than the blue line.

Unlike our wonderful and talented Monica, even after a dozen novels, I can't tell where I am in the story without some measurement. I can roll along for a while, but at the end of the day, I love knowing I'm 62.1% of the way there, as I was on 6/11/07!

This is a visual way of looking at my story. Maybe I'll see that I've written one third of the book and nothing has happened. Oh, oh. Time to check on plot points.

I always thought this love of numbers and graphs stemmed from my training in math and science. But apparently, it's more universal and useful. I was explaining my spreadsheet to one of my stepdaughters who has an MBA. She nodded with approval and gave me one of her marketing/sales mantras:

If you can't measure it, you can't manage it.

My husband/Excel guru has offered to post the details of how to set up a schedule like this for you, for a book or any project you'd like to manage better. Let us know if you're interested.

And now let's go—live!—to a Zombie Gerbil from Outer Space

So I'm looking over my upcoming book tour schedule for DYING TO BE THIN, which launches on October second. The tour includes several highlights that I’m especially thrilled about, including some media appearances (for updates, see my web site.)

Among other places, I’ll be appearing on a morning television show.

That interview will be the first time I’ve set foot inside a TV studio in more than twenty years. And for me, it may prove to be a bittersweet moment.

First, a bit of background:

Twenty-plus years ago, I graduated from Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. During my stint at the J School, I concentrated in broadcasting. My dream was to become a television reporter, and perhaps eventually an anchor.
But my academic advisor soon informed me, in no uncertain terms, that to have a career on camera, I’d have to lose weight.

I’d have to lose a lot of weight. At two-hundred-plus pounds, I needed to lose approximately one-half of myself.

This was a tall order, especially in the days before laparoscopic surgery and stomach rings.

To remediate my excess adipose situation, after graduation I packed up my TR6 and sallied south to Durham, North Carolina, the self-proclaimed “Diet Capital of the World.” There, I enrolled in a residential diet clinic (read: fat farm). Nine hungry months later, I left Durham, tipping the scales at 114 pounds. (At five foot five, I figured even TV news would be satisfied with that three-digit number.) Armed with a new designer wardrobe, I soon landed a reporting internship, and later a full-time job, at a station in South Carolina.

But I quickly discovered that the reality of TV news reporting was far different than I’d imagined. The job involved crazy hours (no problem for me), and tons of stress (some problem for me). To my dismay, I also discovered that I suffered from a bit of camera shyness.

Doing live shots was especially challenging. When you do a live shot, you stand there in front of the camera, holding a microphone, addressing hundreds of thousands of people—without a script. To make things worse, you also have a disembodied voice (the studio producer) yakking at you through an earpiece.

Accomplished professionals in TV-News land, like Anderson Cooper and Katie Couric, make live television look easy.

Trust me, it’s not.

There’s a scene in DYING TO BE THIN that addresses the peculiar challenges of live shots:

In this scene, my protagonist, Kate Gallagher, has just finished her first live shot. It’s gone well, and she’s been congratulated by the cameraman:

“Thanks, Reggie,” I said, removing my earpiece. I was riding a huge surge of relief, a high, really, that my maiden live shot had gone so smoothly. I’ve seen first-time live shots go horribly wrong—the reporters get spacey, or they forget what they’re supposed to say entirely and freeze up in front of the camera the way a hairy-footed gerbil gets hypnotized by a cobra.”

True confession time—that was my first live shot I was describing in the book. I was about as polished as a zombie gerbil from outer space.

I eventually recovered from that rough start, and improved. But along the way, I learned that television news wasn’t the right career for me. Nowadays, I’m much happier being ensconced behind the word processor, spinning out stories that turn out just the way I want them to.

To paraphrase Dirty Harry, “A woman’s got to know her limitations.”

But I’m thrilled to get the chance to go back on television as a guest. A studio guest doesn’t have all the pressure of dealing with where the cameras are, or how many seconds are left before the break, or a producer who’s talking through her earpiece.

Guests can just relax, smile, and be themselves.

Ahh…sounds like the perfect assignment for me.

More on Animal Intelligence

I’ve blogged before on animal intelligence, like their ability to tell time. This week, I was sad to hear about the death of an African grey parrot named Alex. Poor Alex was only 31, which is young for a parrot to go. African greys are really special birds, since they speak and understand English extremely well.

Alex knew over 100 words. He held intelligent conversations with people and was featured on several television shows. He made up his own descriptive words, such as “banerry” to mean apple since it tasted similar to other fruits he knew--bananas and cherries. And he even complained to colleague African greys that they should “talk better.”

Of course, describing Alex’s intelligence was clearly comparing him to humans. An article I read said that he had the intelligence of a 5-year-old kid, and could communicate like a 2-year-old. But a number of years ago, I wrote the manuscript for a book that will never be published, featuring dolphins. One of the things I learned from my research was that using people as a standard doesn’t fully allow for other kinds of intelligence.

From all that I read and learned, dolphins may be every bit as intelligent as people, maybe even more so, in their own oceanic environments. Perhaps they are studying us at the same time we think we’re studying them. Fascinating!

My story won’t be published because it was partly based on the horrors of dolphins being captured and killed in tuna nets. Today, tuna cans are often labeled as being “dolphin safe.” Does that mean that the fishing is done in a manner that truly protects dolphins? Not really. The practice is considered “safe” because fewer are being killed than before. An improvement? Sure. But how would we feel if only a few human lives were taken in the hunt by other creatures for their dinners?

Okay, I’ll get off this particular soap box for now. But I won’t try to resurrect my story as it was, since people today are probably inclined to take “dolphin safe” at face value.

In any event, I still love the idea of other creatures being smart, and, sometimes, able to communicate with us--except if they start telling us what they really think of us!

--Linda

Shoes, Ships, Sealing Wax

I’ve been asking if anyone knows the effect of dry ice vapor on fabrics. I got my answer – and I don’t like it. Nothing happens, it doesn’t fade or damage fibers. But that sort of crushing answer to a hopeful inquiry happens now and then. If writing books was easy, everyone would be doing it.

Tuesday afternoon I visited the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, which has a very large Asian section. The curators I wanted to talk to were all out, I didn’t find exactly what I wanted among the exhibits, but their library was helpful. Did you know art museums have copies of old catalogs from art auctions on computer? You can ask, for example, for any auction anywhere, of thin-soled Victorian ballroom shoes. They also have the results of the auction of any particular item, so if you want to know the highest or the latest auction price, you can find it. Apparently no one has sold the item I was looking for, or else I didn’t describe it properly. I dropped by their bookstore/souvenir shop. Their I found a copy of a two-volume work on Chinese art – but the price was nearly two hundred dollars. Since all I wanted was to look at one little item, they let me do so without having to buy the whole book. I have often bought books that will help me in writing one particular mystery; for example, a book on mahogany power boats from the early 1900s, which helped me with Sins and Needles. But I’m afraid two hundred dollars is too much to pay for the one or two pages of print I could use and a single photograph (and it wasn’t even in color).

I got past a sticking point in Thai Die and suddenly the book is sailing ahead quite rapidly. That’s a huge relief, because the manuscript is due in December and I think I’m somewhere around the halfway point. I don’t plot the Betsy Devonshire novels in great detail, so I don’t know if I’m not yet halfway or more than halfway. It used to worry me, but after eleven novels in this series, I can pretty much turn my characters loose and follow wherever they go. I used to have to nudge them when they get too far off course, but at this point I can trust them to get to the solution in around 65,000 words. And without my resorting to a miracle or huge coincidence. I do allow one coincidence per novel, partly because coincidences happen more often than that in real life and partly because if I didn’t, my sleuth might never figure out who dunnit.

Tuesday evening is my night to drive for a wildlife rescue group, and last night I had to take a badly injured squirrel to an emergency animal clinic about twenty miles from the humane society. As I was going down the freeway it occurred to me that this was just a stupid squirrel, one among the thousands of squirrels in the Twin Cities, enough to be a nuisance. In fact, one or more of them is stealing my tomatoes. It is going to be time-consuming and expensive to save this dumb squirrel’s life – if we manage to save it at all. She has several bad injuries: someone had shot her with a BB pellet and broke her hind leg; and because she couldn’t do that great leaping run squirrels do, a dog got hold of her and tore a big hole in her face. The person who handed her over to me remarked that she was lactating – so somewhere last night, there were some very young and hungry squirrels facing temperatures in the upper thirties. And while she is just one of thousands, to her babies she is the important one. It is possible that, this late in the season, they are grown enough to manage. But I wish I could talk to that person with the pellet gun.

I Want to Have a Baby

by Deb Baker

I thought I was long past the stage where I wanted to have another baby. Six years ago, when I held my granddaughter in my arms, I was overcome with emotion. But I didn’t experience that overpower desire to have one of my own again. Sure, I cooed and marveled, but I didn’t feel that primal urge to crank out another. And, when the tiny bundle began crying, I handed her smugly back to mom with a vivid sense of relief.

But I've decided that I want another baby. And I’m going to have a girl.
I’ve been promised that she won’t cry or wet her pants or have to be nursed. Because she isn't real! She will be a silicone/vinyl baby with a cloth body sculpted by the talented, award-winner Marita Winters. The precious doll in this picture is a one-off, which is something like a limited edition, meaning she’ll never be made again.

I haven’t held one of Marita’s babies yet, but I know I’ll have to have one! Check out more at Winters Whimsies

http://www.winterswhimsies.com/

WritersFest 2007

How the Weekend Began...

On Friday afternoon, I picked up Nancy Pickard from the train station in Kirkwood. Oh, gosh, she’s just the loveliest, sweetest woman. Interested in everything. Smart and thoughtful. We ate a fabulous lunch at the William D. Alandale Brewing Co., 105 East Jefferson Avenue, Kirkwood (314-966-2739). I’m including ALL that contact information because if you’re ever in St. Louis, you’ll want to stop in and order their fabulous fish and chips. Nancy and I savored every bite.

Worker Bees...

My pal, Linda Hengerer, came up from Florida to attend. She, Nancy, my husband David, my son Michael, and I had dinner at my house. Then I drove Nancy to her hotel--after she signed a copy of her The Virgin of Small Plains for Michael. (He was thrilled.)

Bless Linda's heart! She helped me prep food and stuff folders until late Friday night. Along the way, I’d discover I’d forgotten this or that. I’d call “my posse,” my critique partners Donna Ross (aka Fedora Amis) and Judy Moresi. They always came through—even when all I needed was to hear, “Hey, it’s going to be okay!” I didn’t get much sleep. I was too excited! I went to bed at midnight after checking my “to do” list and woke up at 5 the next day to pick up MORE food from the grocery store and get to the conference hotel.

The Big Day Arrives! Saturday, Sept. 8, WriterFest 2007!

The next morning, folks started to stream in. Chesterfield Arts co-sponsored the event—and to our great joy, a lot of new faces were in the crowd along with our regular chapter members. Judy and the wonderful Alexandra Hull worked registration. Our chapter president Michelle Becker opened the event. Our own Eleanor Sullivan introduced the guest speakers.

Novelist's Boot Camp...

Todd Stone began the conference with his Novelist’s Boot Camp, after the book of the same name. As usual, he kicked butt in the best possible way! His down-to-earth, nitty-gritty, honest and workable ideas had our group totally psyched. In fact, attendees complained of being SOOOO revved up, they could hardly sit still for wanting to get cracking on their writing!

Seven Steps to a Better Book

Nancy Pickard took over in the afternoon. She taught more solid skills—picking up where Todd left off. She shared her fantastic CASTS system which made The Virgin of Small Plains such a fabulous book. Her gentle and honest advice about the ups-and-downs of writing gave people permission to move ahead with their dreams.

Resources Every Author Needs

Vicki Erwin of Main Street Books of St. Charles (MO), and her pal Janet Heyer, sold books. After meeting Todd and Nancy, folks clamored to have autographed copies of their work. (Part of the $75 admission price was a copy of Todd’s Novelist’s Boot Camp and Nancy’s Seven Steps on a Writer’s Path. Oh, and breakfast, snacks and lunch.)

How to Get Published

We took a break for dinner—that’s a photo of me with a mouth full as usual!--and returned to discuss How to Get Published. Judy moderated Donna, Nancy, Todd, Vicki and me. As a group we covered all the bases having written books for micro, major and medium-sized publishers; self published; written “for hire” or contract work; won a contest to be published; and authored e-books.

Memories

Certain scenes from this weekend will be forever part of my memory:
· Nancy’s train pulling into the station. (I love trains.)
· Nancy lifting my rescue dog onto her lap and lovingly cuddling him.
· Linda taking cookies out of my oven.
· Todd and his wife, Terri, giving me a Novelist’s Boot Camp tee-shirt.
· Todd answering, “What do you wear underneath your kilt?” with “Shoes and socks!”
· Attendees chatting, laughing, writing like crazy, and getting to know each other.
· Donna telling us about the writing contest she won.
· Judy cajoling folks into returning their lanyards.

I’m still really, really tired, but I loved this weekend. I feel like 50 people got the encouragement and skills they needed to move ahead with their careers. I’m blessed to know two super authors—Nancy and Todd—a little better. (Nancy gave me a new nickname: The Anomaly.) I found a new kindred spirit in Terri Stone. (You go, girl!) And I am ever more thankful for “my posse.”

Donna's Summary of WritersFest 2007

“WritersFest 2007 was a grand success. You just can't beat two super ‘How to write’ books, a parade of last-minute walk-ins, two excellent and illuminating presentations, and a lively panel finish. Everyone went home well-tutored, well-fed and well-nigh exhausted--but well-satisfied.”

And a Napoleonic Finish to the Weekend

Today (Sunday), Linda and her sister Joanne Guller met me at St. Louis Art Museum to see Symbols of Power: Napoleon and the Art of the Empire Style 1800-1815. (Check it out at http://www.travellady.com/Issues/May07/4157StLouisArtMusuem.html) Linda greeted me with a little present, a pin that reads, “Goddess with an Attitude!”

Room with a view

This was the view from my hotel room in New York City last week. It's my favorite. Sure, I loved the view of Central Park as we had brunch in the Metropolitan Museum dining room, and the one looking down 59th Street from the front of the Time Warner Center. You had the same view if you watched the Ellen show this week, by the way. (I tuned in only to see Hillary on Tuesday!)

I loved the sights and sounds of the throngs in Times Square, in Little Italy, and in the lingerie section (would that be thongs?) of Bloomingdales.

But this "rear window" view from my hotel room was the best. One night I tried to count the number of windows, but I lost track after thirty-nine. I wished I'd brought binoculars — who knows, I might have seen something requiring my skills as an amateur sleuth. Just as well, however. I wouldn't have wanted to waste NYPD manpower being called to check out the voyeur on the nineteenth floor of the Hyatt, overlooking Grand Central Station.

Each little window in the photograph held a story and questions of its own. One window, lit all night long, seemed to contain stacks of computer monitors. A storeroom? A clerical pool? Maybe a tempting place for an office tryst. If you saw the Spike TV series "Kill Point" you know how that can turn out.

Was the woman in the yellow brick building watching me as I was watching her? Who was the man in fourth window from the left? To whom did he go home at night? More important, how come he has a job on 42nd Street while I have to drive out to one in the desert of Livermore, California?

As I looked at those windows, I was in creative heaven. Recently I blogged about how I don't mind having only short periods of time in a noisy environment. The full-out truth is, the noisier the better. I need noise to think. Maybe it comes from doing all my undergraduate math and physics homework on Boston's MTA, one arm wrapped around a pole, the other holding my text.

On one of the days last week, I took a train to Wappinger Falls, about an hour and a half upstate from Manhattan, along the Hudson. Out of those windows I saw farms, vast green spaces, silos. It was beautiful, but only for about five minutes. Then it lulled me to sleep. Unlike the windows in my special alley in midtown, all the cows looked alike. I could never write or think in that environment.

What environment gets your creative juices going?

Getting the lard out

This week brought about a sea change in my approach to personal fitness.

Prompted by last week’s faux health scare, I’ve done a lot of soul searching. The upshot is that I’ve taken charge—really taken charge, this time—of my fitness goals. And I’m not just talking about losing weight—I’m talking cardiovascular health, muscular flexibility, and any other health index that I can impact favorably with diet and exercise.

To brainstorm a plan of action, last Friday I met with my family doctor. After taking my vital readings, he fixed me with his best Stern Doctor’s-eye, then socked it to me with some strict lifestyle prescriptions.

To achieve a decent level of fitness (not to mention to achieve a minimal level of eye-candy appeal), he told me that I must do the following:

• Rid my larder of any foods that contain hydrogenated oils, high fructose corn syrup, and anything containing enriched (nouns). Those ingredients, it turns out, are serial killers of cardiovascular health.
  
  Okay, I thought. Granted. Except—do you know how hard that is? Practically everything in my cupboards contains those ingredients. Especially my beloved, convenient meals-in-a-box. You know, the ones where you just add chicken or beef, stir in a cup of water, and—voila! Dinner for four.
  
  Turns out those box-meal babies are loaded with artery-clogging hydrogenated oils. Without those culinary fallbacks, I might—gasp—actually have to cook! How can I be expected to cook on deadline?
  


• Walk thirty minutes a day. Every day, up and down steep hills, or their equivalent on a treadmill.
  
  I really hate this one. ‘Nuff said.
  


• Work out with weight resistance.
  
  I dusted off the free weights that have been rusting under my bed, and started alternating upper body and lower body workout days, using Body for Life by Bill Phillips as a guideline. There hasn’t been a dramatic transformation yet, but it does seem slightly easier to carry a 10-pound bag of kitty litter in from the car.
  


• Take up a stress-relieving pastime, like Yoga.
  
  Here’s the scoop on me and Yoga—whenever I pretzel my limbs into an Awkward Chair Pose, I have to combat an overwhelming urge to burst into giggles. All right, then—sheesh—maybe I’ll try Tai Chi. But wait—some Falun Gong practitioners hang out on the beach where I walk every morning. Maybe I can join forces with them, and become a fellow Enemy Number One of the Chinese Communist Party. At the very least, becoming a political cause célèbre would keep me from dissolving into a gigglefest every time I do my Uranus poses, or whatever-the-heck they call them.
  

High points of the week

After just a week on my new regimen, I’ve noticed some encouraging results:

• I feel a surge of new energy.


• My system has become more regular (I’ll spare you anything further on that).


• I feet…lighter. Substantially lighter, even though I lost only a pound.


• I feel less stress.


• My blood pressure has gone down.


• I feel more present in my body (don’t ask me what the heck that means. But it feels good).

Low point of the week

On Sunday around noon, I was overwhelmed by a sudden, sharp craving for a hot dog. I piled into my TR6 and drove up and down PCH until I found a place called Waldo’s Woofers, whereupon I downed Waldo’s Barkin’ Dog Special, a twelve-inch hot dog laden with chili, onion, and mustard. It was as if my system was experiencing nitrate withdrawal, and demanded a fix.

I sincerely regret that.

Guilty pleasure of the week

Am I the last person on the planet to discover Bravo’s TV series called Work Out, starring Jackie Warner? She’s a personal trainer who runs a gym called Skylab in Beverly Hills. Skylab is a fitness camp where you can immerse yourself in a regimen of fitness and nutrition. If only I were within reasonable driving distance of that gym, I would sign up!

Their web site is:
http://www.bravotv.com/Work_Out/index.shtml

Go forth this week, and get fit!

Canine Heroes

The Los Angeles Times had an article this week about the West Coast War Dog Memorial in Riverside, California, which is east of L.A. It was about the all-too-unsung heroes of many combat situations, military dogs.

As with dogs enlisted by various law enforcement agencies in the U.S., soldiers, too, use dogs in combat as scouts, sentries, guards, life savers... and friends.

The memorial in Riverside is a 16-foot-tall bronze statue of a soldier and his German shepherd. There are also tiles on which messages are left by the dogs’ handlers. The article said that this memorial was initially rejected by the Riverside National Cemetery as being disrespectful to veterans. I would beg to differ, but at least March Field Air Museum accepted the memorial.

The article really touched me, particularly because it said that through most wars and other combat situations, the hero dogs, after saving countless lives, were classified as equipment and killed rather than having any attempt to retrain them and bring them home. How awful! The article says that, of about 4,000 dogs used in the Vietnam War, only about 200 came home.

And what happens to combat dogs now? The article said that, in 2000, legislation was passed allowing handlers to adopt their dogs and bring them home. Yaaay!

Does that solve everything? Well, no, although it’s absolutely a step in the right direction. But I read a book a while back called From Baghdad, with Love: A Marine, the War, and a Dog Named Lava, about the difficulties a soldier had in bringing back a stray dog he’d adopted. The pup wasn’t a hero in uniform, so he hadn’t an absolute right to come to the U.S.

I have to say that the article that prompted this blog entry really got to me, as you can probably tell. Without getting into the politics of it all, I have to assume that soldiers in all wars must want to latch onto any kind of comfort they can--including the unqualified love of a dog. Dump that when they head home? Maybe, but I doubt it. Thank heavens that has changed, at least as to official animals.

I’m wondering if I can work this kind of situation into one of my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries. I’m sure Kendra would use all legal precedents and shenanigans possible to bring all beloved doggies home.

--Linda

I Was So Angry ...

I hate my computer! If I could figure out how to put a little picture on my blog entries I’d show one on fire. Or being smashed with a crowbar. I have had to re-write a novel from the start. It is due in a few months and is moving as if it had aircraft carrier-size anchors attached to both ankles. But it is moving. I had a particular struggle with a crucial scene in which there was a physical struggle, a half-accidental death, followed by the arrival of suspicious police – and there were nine people in all, and each had to be described and quoted. Complicated! But I did it, I had it all done. I wrote the next two chapters and was outlining the one after that. The way I’ve been doing this book is to keep writing forward, and now and then go back to tweak or polish a previous chapter. Day before yesterday I went to look at that perfect chapter one more time, gloat over it – and it was gone. It had somehow been replaced by the succeeding chapter, though the succeeding chapter was also in its correct place in the file. My webmistress and dearest friend and companion sat at the keyboard and struggled for hours to find it, but it’s gone, wiped out, vanished. I was sick with anger and disappointment, could not bring myself to even sit at the computer until late yesterday evening. And I found, to my horror, that I can’t recall big hunks of the missing chapter. Normally, when I have to re-create something, the original is all there somewhere in my head. It’s as if I memorized it. It’s infuriating work, writing something that was already written and polished and reworked and tweaked into perfection, but I can do it. That isn’t the case this time. It’s as gone as if I’d never written it in the first place. Well, not completely; the first scene just rolled out effortlessly. Then the screen of my mind went dark. All I can think to do is go to the end of what I’ve written and work forward from there and trust this important chapter will slowly come back to me.

This is why authors go mad.

That was written this past Saturday and I’m feeling much better now. But here’s another reason authors go mad: At the Sisters in Crime meeting Tuesday evening (it’s Tuesday night as I write this) the speaker was a homicide investigator with the BCA (Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Minnesota’s state-wide investigation arm). I had used BCA in the book coming out this winter, saying they helped investigate a very suspicious burglary in Excelsior. I couldn't seem to connect with anyone at BCA when I was writing that part, and even their web site wasn’t very helpful, and I didn’t know where else to look, so I just made it up – and I was wrong. First of all, the investigative team would be from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department, not BCA. Second, they no longer have that little white van but a huge motor home they got from a big drug bust. It even has a name, Higgins, after a former head of BCA. That would have been a cute, telling detail – except I wouldn’t have used BCA at all if I’d done my research properly. I am SO BUMMED about this, I should have been more persistent. I HATE getting details wrong, because it annoys me when I’m reading another author and he or she drops a clanger like this. It spoils suspension of disbelief for me, as this will for a knowledgeable reader. And it’s too late to fix it, I’ve even finished with the galleys. I didn’t get to hear the BCA investigator's talk, but I caught the man, who is Eugene A. Leatherman, Jr., Senior Special Agent (isn’t that a great name and title?), outside Once Upon A Crime mystery bookstore and got to talk to him for awhile. He says he’s procrastinating over a novel of his own.

By the way, another person at the meeting was the Dakota County Medical Examiner, a very pretty and petite woman who told me how to kill someone with a double-zero steel Skacel knitting needle – I used that in Sins and Needles. She’s nice.

The reason I didn’t get to hear the talk is that Tuesdays are my evening to deliver injured and/or orphaned wild animals to licensed rehabbers in the area. This is a slow time of year, but there were two squirrels that needed to go to Forest Lake – and the man who met me there to pick them up needed to talk about his son, Josh, who was killed in a truck rollover almost exactly two years ago. The boy was on his way to report to his unit going to Iraq. Nice man, his description of his son made him sound like a very fine young man, so it’s a sad loss.

Plus, it made my computer problem and detail error seem piddling things, hardly worth getting more than annoyed about.

You never, ever know what lies in store.

Goodbye Dolly

by Deb Baker

Today is the official publication date for Goodbye Dolly, the second book in my Dolls To Die For Series. It’s out in bookstores everywhere! Here’s the scoop:

Doll restoration artist Gretchen Birch has found a new circle of friends in the Phoenix Dollers Club members. They share a passion for dolls that goes way beyond children's toys- to the most fascinating creations in history. Gretchen is about to find out (the hard way) that every doll has a story to tell.

Gretchen's at her first major doll show without her mother, praying she doesn't botch any repair jobs. But glue-gun glitches turn out to be the least of her worries when a sleazy reporter is found dead-with Gretchen's crafts knife stuck in his back. Then someone begins sending her boxes of broken Kewpie dolls with cryptic, threatening messages hidden inside. Now she must watch her step, or else she'll end up needing more than a few repairs...

Visit my website to enter a contest to win a gift basket filled with goodies. Simply answer one question correctly and your name will be in the drawing. www.debbakerbooks.com

Princess Diana's Last Resting Place

A Trip to Althorp…

In many ways, Althorp looks like any other old English estate. As is common, the expansive grounds surround the home so completely that the building cannot be seen from the road. Sheep graze serenely in adjacent fields, part of a 13,000-acre estate. Twin gate houses flank a long alley leading to the weathered stone 131-room mansion. A field facing the gates is set aside for visitors. Cars are parked in muddy, unpaved spaces interrupted by struggling tufts of grass. The day I visited with my friend Venetta the sky was streaked with dark swaths of moody blue, threatening rain.

Signs directed us up the drive, around the side of the house, and into a brick-paved courtyard surrounded by converted stables. One had been turned into a small shop with a big display window. Front and center were leather bound copies of Diana’s eulogy written by her brother.

Venetta and I walked over for a closer look. To our amazement, inside the store stood Diana’s brother, Charles, the 9th Earl Spencer.

Why Prince Charles Married Diana and Not Camilla…

A lot has been said about why Prince Charles was discouraged from marrying Camilla and encouraged to marry Diana. The young woman’s suitability has been much touted: she was a virgin, young, biddable and of good family. But the reason that strikes me as most likely—and I saw proof with my own eyes—was the Spencer family’s good looks.

Diana’s brother took my breath away. All I can compare him to is a model on the cover of a romance novel.

The images of him at Diana’s funeral do not do him justice. Her brother’s features are not perfect, but his coloring is gorgeous and his physicality, well, he’s tall, lithe and well-built. His eyes are an unusual blue, and his every movement is graceful, poetic even. If his sister was anything like him—and I’m sure she was—I can see why the royal family was excited about bringing into “the firm” a beautiful, fairytale princess.

By the way, this idea isn’t original: an article in a UK magazine posited that Diana was selected expressly to bring height and attractive features to the royal bloodline. And that she did. According to the magazine writer, Camilla simply wasn’t good-looking enough for the job.

A Line Omitted from the Eulogy…

Inside the converted stables was a display of Diana’s personal artifacts. Some of her designer dresses and jewels, family photos, her childhood scrapbook and toys, dried petals from tribute flowers, and so on, were arranged in floor to ceiling glass cases. One item of particular interest: her brother’s original draft of the eulogy. (See http://www.spiritual-medium.com/ditrib.htm) In the movie The Queen, Charles, the Earl Spencer, is shown speaking at the funeral with these very papers in hand. His remarks were typewritten--except for a few words inserted by hand and later crossed out right after the part about "thanking God." In that added and omitted phrase, he also thanked Dodi Fayed for making the last months of his sister’s life happy ones.

The Island…

Behind the main house, Diana is buried on a tiny man-made island in the midst of a tiny pond. I suspect her brother gave thought to the thousands of visitors and decided it was best to control the crowds by making his sister’s resting place inaccessible. (The tiny white "spot" in the photo on my scrapbook page is the urn atop her plinth on the island.)

Facing the island is a white stone structure, two stories high, with simple columns and “DIANA” centered under the eaves. Sheltered by the overhang is a large cameo portrait of Diana and a severe black bench.

How isolated Diana is! She’s not spending eternity near her sons. Nor is she buried near anyone who loved her. She’s by herself on the island. Even in death, Diana is alone, a curiosity, a photo opportunity, an outsider, and a spectacle.

Saving Althorp…

A portion of the family home is open to visitors for a fee. Charles, Earl Spencer, lives in the rest of the building part of the year. Venetta and I paid to be herded by docents through a mainly unremarkable old house. Like other old English manors, it must cost a fortune to maintain. Most memorable were the twin staircases mirroring each other and leading from the main floor to the second. At the top of one is a life-sized portrait of Charles, Earl Spencer. The rolled scroll in his hand is Diana’s eulogy. Facing him at the top of the other staircase is a life-sized portrait of his sister.

Shortly before she died, Diana had asked her brother if she could come live in a small cottage on the estate. He told her, “No.”

But Diana has come home. Not to live. Certainly forever. In death she generates the money necessary to keep Althorp in the family for generations to come.

Magical thinking

I'm just back from New York City where I saw Vanessa Redgrave on Broadway. I wish she'd seen me, too, because that might mean I'd have her autograph on my Playbill. I attended — "participated in" is a better way of putting it — one of her last Tony-nominated performances of Joan Didion's "Year of Magical Thinking." What a combination of outstanding writing and acting!

Didion managed to turn the worst time of her life — she lost both her husband of forty years and her thirty-nine-year-old daughter — into first a moving memoir and then an amazing play.
Add the lovely hands and voice of Redgrave to Didion's powerful prose and you have ninety minutes of magical theater.

When asked in an interview how she could write about her grief, Didion's reply was that there was nothing else to do: "I had to write my way out of it."

There wasn't a dry eye in the Booth Theater the night I was there, but that wasn't because everyone felt sorry for Joan Didion. Well, maybe a little. And maybe a little because of being only a few rows from Vanessa Redgrave, considered one of the greatest actresses of our time. But mostly the emotional connection was due to the universal expressions of the two women, one behind the scenes through her words and the other in front of the footlights, living it in the moment.

To mix metaphors a little here, I'd like to quote John Steinbeck: " — a great and interesting story is about everyone or it will not last."

I'm sure we've all tried to write our way out of one trauma or another, but Didion and Redgrave were able to find the place where the story was about all of us. Not in its particulars, but in its emotional reach. It's a tough job, but in the end, the only one for a writer.

Thoughts?