February 14, 2013
So it’s Valentine’s Day. The High Holy Day of romance.
The Facebook and Twitter feed is going to be loaded with messages about love.
The flower delivery guys are going to be working double time.
Husbands and significant others are going to be sweating bullets, especially the ones who haven’t gotten their act together.
To be honest, as a romance author, I feel an enormous amount of pressure to hold up the whole V-day thing. I mean, I’m supposed to be an expert on love and romance.
(Which is why I’m sitting right here writing my obligatory Valentine’s day blog article.)
And, you know, I am an expert on this holiday. But not the way you might think.
Once, a long time ago, I worked in public relations for a trade association of very large retailers. And one of my job descriptions was to sell Valentines Day. Every year we did a survey of shoppers to find out how much they were going to spend on this holiday. And every year the gender gap between men and women widened. Women planned to spend under ten bucks on a few cards and maybe something fun for the kids. Guys were going all out buying diamonds and flowers. On Valentines Day I would wake up very early and spend most of the day on the phone doing radio interviews about this gender gap. And then I would make suggestions to the forlorn husbands, boyfriends, and significant others who had screwed up and forgotten. Every year my assistant and I put together a list of romantic suggestions that the Valentines Day challenged could pick up at their local big box retailer on the way home from work.
This experience put me off the whole thing. I mean, reducing love to the value of a gift is pitiful. And, increasingly, this is what Valentines Days seems to be all about.
Yesterday a friend of mine who is going through a pretty bad break-up made the comment that it was particularly annoying to have a guy who ignores you 364 days a year, turn around and give you something expensive on V-Day. At the same time, I used to remember how my assistant, who was not married and didn’t have a boyfriend, used to turn into a total grump every V-day when we had to pull together romantic suggestions for the romance-challenged. She felt lonely and left out, and she shouldn’t have.
Love is not about Valentines Day gifts. It’s not about flowers. Or any of that. Sure, it’s awesome when some guy sends you flowers, but just think about how much more awesome it would be if your honey sent you flowers on some random day, instead of feeling obliged to send them on February 14? This year I told my hubby not to do anything. He takes care of me every day. He keeps my car running. He’s redoing the basement for me so I can have a sewing room. He’s taking me to Spring Training on my birthday. He tells me every day how much he loves me. Not in presents, but in his actions. I hope I reciprocate. I think I do. I mean, I do his laundry every week, and that is love.
If you want to be romantic, remember that love is an active verb. It can’t be bought for the price of a dozen roses. And we do our men a serious injustice by expecting them to put out on this day every year. It’s not fair to them and it’s not fair to us, either.
So, to get everyone into a truly romantic mood, here’s Clint Black singing one of my favorite loves songs, Something That We Do.
February 4, 2013
As some of you know the series of books I’m working on right now are all partially based on well-known, and well-loved classics that are in the public domain.
I’ve been kind of running below the social media radar for the last few weeks as I put the finishing touches on Last Chance Knit & Stitch, the Little Women adaptation. I’m on the home stretch. And when this is done, I’ll turn my attention to Jane Eyre.
But for now, I thought y’all would enjoy a little snippet from Last Chance Knit & Stitch. As always it’s a dance scene. I don’t know about you, but the dance scenes in classic romantic novels just speak to me.
To set up this scene, it takes place during Dash Randall’s wedding (and you’ll have to read all about his romance in Last Chance Book Club, which will available in March 2013.) The hero is Simon Wolfe, one of Last Chance’s prodigal sons. The heroine is Molly Canaday, the daughter of the high school football coach and a female mechanic down at Bill’s Grease Pit. You’ll meet Molly and her mother, who owns the Knit & Stitch in Last Chance Book Club. If you’ve ever read Little Women, you’ll recognize Molly’s personality. She’s very much like Josephine March, one of the main characters in Louisa May Alcott’s enduring classic. Here is the excerpt:
Molly stood up and put her hand in his. His palm was warm and dry and sexy as hell. Her own hands were rough and callused. She was aware of this fact only because Jane had clucked over them the whole time she was working on Molly’s manicure.
“I sure hope I don’t trip over these shoes,” she said as they stood on the floor facing each other. He was clearly waiting to catch the beat of the dance.
“Trust me, you’ll be fine,” said Simon, looking down at the blue satin shoes she’d borrowed from Rachel. He evidently approved of them. Or maybe he was admiring her thin ankles.
He took her in his arms, and in an instant, away they went, not very gracefully because Molly had no idea how to waltz or even let Simon lead. But, even if she stumbled and almost turned her ankle, she discovered that dancing with Simon was fun. Way more fun than standing on the sidelines with Les making rude remarks about people.
“Molly, you are so beautiful this evening I’m almost afraid to speak with you.”
“Ha, you’re only afraid because you know darn well Coach is over there watching us like a hawk and disapproving of every minute.”
“No. I’m not afraid of your father. But I swear, Molly, if you dressed like that on a regular basis, you’d be turning heads from one end of Palmetto Avenue to the other.”
She looked up and met his dark eyes. “Don’t tease me. I know I’m not beautiful. I went to the Cut ‘n Curl this morning to get my hair done, and Ruby, Jane, and Rocky Rhodes dressed me up. I think it was for their enjoyment, but I know I don’t look like me in this dress. By the way, it’s your Cousin Rachel’s dress, and I think I ruined it.”
“I’m sure you look better in it than Rachel ever did.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Your cousin is gorgeous, and I’m not. I’m odd and strange. So quit. If you want to know, I feel kind of like a dressed up Barbie or something. Not that I ever played with Barbies, but obviously Ruby, Rocky, and Jane did. I don’t even know how I got myself into this situation. I just wanted Ruby to cut my hair is all.”
“Remind me to thank Ruby.” He glanced up at her hair. “You’ve done more than just pile it on your head, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t do anything, except let Ruby mess around with it.”
“Would you let me mess with it?” he murmured.
Oh heaven help her. He was seductive and irresistible. And a tease. She had a little girl crush on him and a big girl case of sexual frustration. He was going to drive her insane, because there was no way he’d really cross Coach. No one in this town crossed Coach. Ever. Especially one of his former players.
February 1, 2013
It’s the first of February. A brand new month, and I’m hoping it’s a brand new beginning. Because, frankly, December and January were tough.
I got a lung infection the first week of December that turned into bronchitis, which hung around for weeks and weeks. The Newtown news in mid-December dragged down my spirit and cast a pall over my holiday. In January, I got slammed at work and found myself dodging deadlines. I had to travel on business in December and January, and going through security and dealing with jet lag can get a girl down.
I kept telling myself this feeling of exhaustion and disconnection would end. Because I had an appointment with my soul doctor on January 31st.
Soul doctor?
Well, he isn’t really a doctor. He doesn’t have a medical degree. But he practices musical medicine. He’s a singer-songwriter named David Wilcox. David’s music is deeply emotional, wonderfully cathartic, and always optimistic. When he sings, he’s practically transcendent, and he can pull an audience right along with him. I never leave one of his concerts in a bad mood. His songs touch me soul-deep. There is nothing quite like a David Wilcox high.
Okay so I’m a big fan girl. But David’s music opens my eyes and my heart. He makes me turn away from all that crap that gets me down and reminds me of what is really important. And, to be utterly honest, he is my muse. His music has inspired plot lines, character traits, conflict, and resolution. If I’m stuck for an idea, I strap on the iPod and listen to David sing.
Last night he sang a lot of new songs, one of which just happened to give me the solution to a plot problem I’ve been worrying about.
He also sang a bunch of old songs, and one of them–“Show The Way”–a song I’ve heard thousands of times, rose up and grabbed me by the throat and almost brought tears to my eyes. He uses a metaphor in the song about writing a play that appeals to the writer in me. But the song is about so much more. It’s about the deepest kind of love. And it reminds me why love stories have always appealed to me. And why I chose to write about love above all other things.
So here’s a video of David singing that song. It’s not from last night, but from a performance taped in 2004.
