If You Can Do It For Joy…

First, thanks to everybody who commented last week. You overwhelm me with your interest and with your insights. I’ll continue working through the comments between ice storms and power blinks.

I’m also continuing to work through my “Write Better, Faster,” workshop, and this week’s exercise is to keep track of how we’re spending our time. Not only are we writing down what we’re doing, we’re writing down whether it’s essential, a high priority, a desirable activity, or a non-essential task. Finally, we’re keeping track of how we feel about the various to-do’s we’re doing.

This is tedious, and finding the time and motivation to make one more list has been a struggle. Interestingly, the presenter puts great emphasis on the need for adequate sleep. We haven’t yet discussed adequate rest, rejuvenation, or joy. We will doubtless get to that–the presenter is very knowledgeable and thorough–but I think I might need theremedial sessions on that topic.
As I read down my time log, I’m struck by two things. First, so much of what goes into a day is non-negotiable. We must procure groceries, we must tend to hygiene, we must deal with the bank, we must get the scripts filled, we must eat, we must show up for that day job.

Second, so little of what I do in my day occasions joy. I’m grateful for my many freedoms and privileges, I’m grateful to have a meaningful day job (well, most days I’m grateful…), I’m grateful to have food to eat (really grateful), but the reality is, I can’t eat what I want to eat (not without life-threatening consequence). I can’t miss court (not without profession-threatening consequences). I can’t blow off taking out the trash or putting gas in the car.

Most of my days aren’t awful. They hover between boring and OK, with some tedium or some pleasantry thrown in. I am very, very lucky and I know it. But I also see that list of chores–most of what I do is a chore of some sort–and I see the emotional monotony it invokes, about a much bigger chunk of my time than I would have suspected.

Which leaves me with why I write: I love to write. I’m happy when I write. I’m not content to do it, or OK with it, or comfortable with it. I love to write. Doesn’t matter if it’s a blog post, an email, or a scene for a novel (wrote a hot scene today–wheee!), I was born to write. If I can get some writing hours in most days, then all the other duty-do’s are bearable.

Writing is the one item on my list that has words like “Yum!” and “Lovely!” beside it, every time that activity is on my time log. So as I move into 2018, I want to make sure I get that writing time in, no matter what.

What were you born to do? What’s the activity on your schedule that would almost always have a smiley face beside it? Can you do more of that?

To three commenters, I’ll send signed copies of A Rogue of Her Own


Strong and Graceful

I believe in love. I also believe in education, so I’m enrolled in a class titled, “Write Better, Faster.” Speed doesn’t interest me–Margaret Mitchell wrote one book, shifted significant discussions, and retired wealthy–but the part about writing better…that caught my eye.

One of the course instructor’s first points is that when we focus on our strengths in addition to our weaknesses (not instead of), we often see astonishing benefits. She cited a study done by the Gallup Institute (of Gallup polls fame), involving reading speed. A group of school children were all given the same instruction on how to improve reading speed. The slow readers doubled their reading speed (from an average of 70 wpm to 140 wpm) which is a fine result. The fast readers increased their reading speeds up to ten times, some of them reaching speeds of 2900 wpm.

To get a sense of how fast that is, those fast readers could zip through a 90,000 word manuscript in about 32 minutes, but because they were already fast readers, the likelihood of them ever being put in the path of speed reading instruction was slim to none.

We don’t teach to our strengths.

One of the realizations I’ve come to early in this course is that I had to stop and think–hard, at length–to even identify my strengths, while my weaknesses are… I have a list right here. I’ve been carrying that list around since childhood, adding to it a lot more frequently than I cross anything off. While we see our weaknesses as susceptible to improvement, we tend to badly underestimate the effort necessary to address them.

This half-empty mindset can make for a lot of frustration. The data is, when we spend our days focused mostly on what we do well, what we love to do, what comes naturally to us, we’re happier, healthier, more productive, more creative, more energetic, more resilient, and better learners. That seems like common sense, but life–in the form of bills that must be paid, children who must be raised, and employment situations beyond our control–has a way of obscuring common sense.

I also think this is a gendered issue. Women are culturally expected to put their own needs behind those of family and co-workers, and thus doing the blah jobs, ignoring our own boredom, and forgetting what a great day feels like, goes with the gender terrain for many of us.

I hope to widen the portion of my life that comes from my strengths. I want to be a happy camper, same as everybody else, but I’ve also learned that when we have that great privilege of playing and working to our strengths, we’re much more likely to make progress tackling the weaknesses.

What’s something you absolutely love to do and do well? Is there a way to do more of it?

To three commenters, I’ll send signed author copies of A Rogue of Her Own.


Dear Little Me

I’ve seen those memes about what would you tell your younger self if you could talk to her now, and the answer for me is never simple. My younger self went nineteen to the dozen, either working and going to school full time, or working and single-parenting, or working two jobs. Hard to get anything of substance across to somebody traveling at warp speed, but bills do not pay themselves.

I do though, occasionally talk to my daughter, a millennial still thrashing through an undergraduate curriculum as she nears age thirty (oh, so old!). She’s also working and going to school, also riding horses, also doing battle with nagging mental and physical health issues. She gets daunted.

Who doesn’t? When we talk, I try to reassure her that these busy, overwhelming, difficult years will come in handy. She won’t know when, she won’t necessarily see it coming, but the hours she spent volunteering at an animal shelter in Denver, the voice lessons she took, the marathons she’s run (two, and many halfs), are all building equity toward happiness and effectiveness later in life.

I earned a degree in music history. My father despaired of my making my living playing piano, though I did just that all through college. After college, I closed the lid of the piano, and thought I was done with music. Thirty years later, I was writing The Virtuoso, and using my music history degree like a boss.

I rode horses as a kid, then put away my childish things. When I was staring at serious burnout in my mid-thirties, the horses brought me back to life.

To get my music history degree, I had to take twelve credits of German, but hadn’t had to use German for more than 35 years. There I was in Scotland a couple years ago, at Culloden Battlefield, grabbing lunch in the snackshop. An older woman gestured to the table I was standing near. “Ist es frei?” she asked. “Ja, es ist frei,” I replied. “Sitzen sie sich, bitte.” (Is this [table] free? Yes, it’s free, please do sit yourself down.)

That little exchange made me so happy!

Life comes together, I would tell my younger self. Treasures you forgot you stuffed in your pockets will come in handy down the road, and that will be big fun. Dots connect in wonderful and unexpected ways, skills realign to create new opportunities. I tell my daughter: It’s all yours to keep. No course, no race, no casual convo in the King Souper is wasted. You’re piling up riches that will pay interest you can’t foresee.

Romance novels nod in the direction of this sentiment when the closing scenes hark back to the opening lines, or use a setting that’s shared with the first kiss or the big black moment. It all comes together, and in a happy way.

What treasure did you pick up along the way that came in handy long after you thought the warranty had expired? Or is there something in your pocket you haven’t quite found a use for, but are glad you picked up?

To one commenter, I’ll send a signed Windham Brides bundle: The Trouble With Dukes, Too Scot to Handle, No Other Duke Will Do.


On Your Mark, Get Setting, Go!

A few of my fridge magnets.

Writing a scene is a busy job. The characters in that scene are all supposed to Have Goals. The goals can be simple–let me eat my ice cream in peace!–or complicated: Find the bomb, diffuse it, get out safely and collect the king’s youngest daughter before the enemy’s guards swarm the throne room, and DO NOT SNEEZE even though the palace is overrun with cats to which our heroine is allergic.

The scene should contain tension, which is a job in itself. The point-of-view character’s goal is usually thwarted (sorry, your dude-ship). The character’s emotions are usually conflicted (it was a stupid goal anyway, and the princess is a pain in the behonkis on a good day, and ice cream is never as scrumptious as it’s supposed to be), and the other characters in the scene are generally throwing sand in the gears (because they DO want the bomb to go off).

Tea towel of Scottish wildflowers.

Wheee! With all that emotion and activity, the result can be “talking heads in a white room.” I’m guilty of this, at least in first drafts. I’ll be so focused on getting to the snappy repartee and ‘splainin’ the feels while the characters do the stuff, that I forget that this drama, or even this quiet moment of despair, takes place in a setting.

To neglect setting is to neglect an entire layer of the story, for in that setting will be a treasure trove of symbols, small and large, that add subtle depth and complexity to the tale: Westhaven’s relentlessly clicking abacus, the dilapidated estate Valentine is trying to salvage with its terrace “listing hard to port” like Valentine’s life, Nick’s mare Buttercup–the wrong mount for an earl’s heir, or is she? Tremaine, the shrewd, self-interested wool nabob who loves a late night snack in a warm, shadowy kitchen. Lucas Sherbourne, whose remote Welsh manor house is elegantly appointed but impossible to keep warm.

Some of my editorial assistants.

The physical realities in a character’s scenes should give the reader insight into the character’s interior life, longings, and secrets. Writers know this, and they also know that symbols and settings aren’t just for works of fiction. Many of my author buddies have a “glory wall,” or a place where they keep the visible reminders of their successes: A deal memo from a publisher, a glowing review, a landscape they snapped when researching their first novel.

Other authors go more for affirmations, or pictures of loved ones, or physical copies of the books that motivated them. These words and objects have the power to inspire, to reassure, to remind us of who we are or who we want to become.

Everybody’s symbols will be different, but we do know that the objects we keep around us tell part of our story. Can you think of a scene where the setting made a particular impact on you? If I was writing a scene about YOU, what objects would you want me to mention, and why?

To one commenter, I’ll send an audio book of Too Scot to Handle, in honor of Colin and Anwen’s nomination for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice award for Best Historical Love and Laughter (urchins, represent!).

The Villain of the Piece

In novel writing classes, after we’ve discussed character arcs, pacing, prose-craft, world-building, voice, and a zillion other angels dancing on the head of a pin, somebody gets around to raising the topic of the antagonist.

The antagonist need not be a bad person, or even a human. The antagonist can be an immutable law of the novel world (treason must be punished–The Traitor), logistics (an ocean between our obligations/not enough money in the world–Elias in Love, The Highland Holidays novellas),  values (she cannot tolerate violence, honor compels him to seek justice–The Captive), or a misunderstanding/secret (many novellas, The Laird), but to the reader, the antagonist, to quote Joanna Bourne, must be “real, interesting, and substantial.”

I have rarely written a truly heinous villain, in part because I don’t want to dwell on evil. In the Windham Bride series, I’m coming close, though. (Sorta spoiler alerts…) Hamish and Megan face a man who’d force an unwilling woman into the intimacy of marriage for the sake of his creature comforts. That’s awful–and he’s so cheerful about it.

Colin and Anwen face people who are cavalier about starving children, and unbothered by again, using coercion of innocents, even the threat of death, to get what the villains want. In A Rogue of Her Own, the hero, Sherbourne, is an outsider, meaning he both sees the titled villain more clearly, and also risks much more than scandal if he tries to hold his lordship accountable. (Can you tell I like that book?)

Those stories are in contrast to a tale like Worth: Lord of Reckoning. No bad guy, no bad gal. Just the competing demands of honor, a secret or two, stubborn pride, but it all works out in the end.

Then I come across this quote form CS Lewis (sorry I don’t know how to make it larger), about “scoundrelism,” and how it often germinates from the very human desire to be part of an Inner Ring. Our craving for intimacy and acceptance lead us away from decency. As he says, “Of all the passions, the passion for the Inner Ring is most skillful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things.”

That quote is scary. I don’t want to write that book, with an antagonist who seduces decent people away from the light, promising special status, acceptance, and perks. I’m not sure I could write that book, especially not as a romance, but the other rubric I hear in writers’ classes is that the protagonists are only as compelling as the forces they overcome. What force is more compelling than the creeping allure of intimate evil?

Where do you come down on antagonists? Have I written one that worked especially well for you, one that fell flat? Is a book like Worth, which leans toward comedic techniques, a more convincing romance than The Captive? What “real, substantial, interesting” problem have you seen most effectively keep a romance hero and heroine from waltzing away with an easy HEA?

To one commenter, I’ll send a signed Advance Reader Copy for A Rogue of Her Own (found another one since last week).


Already Winning

My social media feed is full of ads targeting the New Year’s resolution crowd: Life coaches, super food delivery programs, yoga video packages, keen-science athletic gear, self-help workbooks, special look-younger goop or pills…. I take great delight in clicking, “Hide ad–not relevant to me,” for all of it.

Then I came across this article, courtesy of Susan Cain (the recovering lawyer who wrote Quiet) which describes a means of making yourself more intelligent, healthier, more empathetic, and  less stressed. You’re already doing it, my friends, because you read book-length fiction.  I was appalled to learn that 70 percent of inmates and 85 percent of our juvenile delinquents are functionally illiterate, but that’s a post for a different day.

So I’m patting myself on the back for being a dedicated reader. Then I come across another article, telling me that black tea is packed with polyphenols and flavonoids, which goose our immune systems, and quintuple our production of interferon. Black tea and green tea also boost alpha wave production, which is the calm, “screen saver” brainwave we enjoy upon rising–my best time to write. What’s more, the quercetin in tea helps increase HDL cholesterol, which is a good thing.

So I’m patting myself on the back for being a life-long tea drinker (and sorry, coffee does not confer these same benefits, though it has perks (get it!) of its own). Then I come across this article, which says that 3,000 steps a day, five days a week, will go a long way toward cutting my risk of diabetes. 10,000 steps a day will do much more, but there’s a lot of benefit even from the shorter distance.  I have to be purposely spuddin’ not to hit 3000 steps in a day.

Then I come across this article, which recounts the demonstrable benefits of keeping flowers on hand, whether in the workplace or at home. Flowers make us more compassionate and creative, and less depressed or anxious. (Yeah, somebody did some funded research to prove the obvious.) Guess who loves flowers, and often grabs a bouquet at the grocery store?

Then I come across this article, which backs up the notion that good, dark chocolate (in the 70 percent cocoa range), can improve brain function, vascular health, mood, and a host of other health indicators. We knew that.

Here’s where I’m going with this: In the New Year, I resolve to keep doing the things that work for me and contribute to my health and well being. I’m going to read good books, chomp good chocolate, swill good tea, trundle on the tread desk in moderation, and indulge my love of flowers.

How are you already winning? What ways do you indulge yourself that are actually pretty good for you? To one commenter, I’ll send my last (I think) advanced reader copy ofA Rogue of Her Own (Mar. 6, 2018).

Auld Lang Zinger

I have no particular New Year’s Eve plans, other than to stay warm. My day will be spent revising My One and Only Duke, which you lovely folks won’t see on the shelves until November 2018, when the Rogues to Riches series launches.

And yet, the time of year does get me thinking about where I’ve been in the past twelve months, and where I want to be. 2017 was a year of losses for me, some of which–like those twenty pounds I won’t miss–are cause for celebration. Others, like the law office riding slowly into the sunset, are simply life moving along, and one–my dad’s passing three weeks shy of his 97th birthday–hurts like blazes.

If there’s a silver lining regarding Mom’s death in 2016 and Dad’s death earlier this year, it’s that my six siblings and their spouses and kids are terrific people, and they are all still mine to love.

2017 also saw gains. I aspire to write and publish about half a million words each year, and I met that goal with titles I’m proud of. I got back in the saddle (wheee!) something I’d been muttering about for several years, and I saw some new sights on the Number One London country house tour. I traveled too much (again), but am nowhere near ready to throw in my frequent flyer towel.

Next year, I’m slated to attend the New Zealand Romance Writers’ conference, and what the heck, I might as well pop over to Australia while I’m in the neighborhood. I’m also scheduled to attend the Historical Romance Retreat in San Diego, and I’m even considering having a Regency ballgown made for that occasion, because I missed out on playing dress-up as a kid.

And that’s probably my theme going forward: I want to play more. Being self-employed, it’s easy to fall into a work-all-the-time habit. Even when I’m traveling in the UK, I’m usually working on a manuscript, reading copy edits, or both. When I was in Northern England this year, my hotel was across from a lovely little park. On one of my down-time days (meaning working on a book instead of touring a house), I toddled over to the park to get some fresh air, because–altogether now–sitting is the new smoking.

I soon noticed that I was walking faster than anybody else in the park, barreling along, consulting the step-counter on my phone, debating how many laps around the pond I should do…. I’m sure the nice people spotted me for an over-wound Yank before I’d completed my first circuit.

I like that version of Grace–she’s productive, mostly solvent, and mostly happy–but she needs to find a lower gear sometimes, so she too can make it well past her three-score-and-ten, and write lots more happily ever afters along the way.

So how was your 2017, and what are you looking forward to in 2018? To one commenter, I’ll send a signed copy of the book of his or her choice.

Once Upon a Bathroom Scale…

This is a time of year when many people unite around a common story, whether it’s the miracle of a temple flame burning for eight days, the tale of young couple far from home when the new baby arrives, or the sharing of cultural roots that reach past a period of enslavement to the rich and varied histories of West African societies. I can’t recall a major holiday in my childhood that wasn’t in some way associated with storytelling.

One of my family’s favorites was that time when Grace tried to weigh her head. You read that right. I was five or six, and I got taken with the notion of figuring out how much my head weighed. I laid on the bathroom floor and put my head on the scale. There’s a problem with this approach: With my head on the scale, I couldn’t read the scale. What to do?

Had I chosen, say, the middle of a Saturday afternoon to research this vital fact, then there were would likely be no story. I chose a weekday morning at about 7:30 am. At this time of day, my oldest two brothers would have been trying to get out of the house to attend their college classes. Three other siblings had a bus to catch, and my dad needed to get to the office.

And the nine members of the Burrowes family had to execute the morning routine with one bathroom between us all. The other half bath, being in a more or less renovated garage, was colder than a well digger’s boots, and saw about as much use as would a two-seater at the back of the hog house.

Because that one full bath was in constant demand, it also had one of very few locking doors in the house. To conduct my head-weighing experiment, I required privacy, like most great minds when wrestling with a profound question. I locked the bathroom door, and commenced to study on how to weigh my head and read the scale. The problem was complicated.

A brother pounded on the door. “Grace, hurry up! I can’t be late for class.”

As if that was my problem? Genius takes time. Another sibling thumped on the door. “What the heck are you doing in there?”

“None of your business.”

This went on–five older siblings make a lot of racket–until my mom realized that our usual early morning ballet had hit a logjam. “Grace, unlock this door.”

“No. I’m weighing my head.”

Except I wasn’t. I was trying to weigh my head, but no matter how quickly I peeked, the scale didn’t register the actual weight of my head. An estimate for such vital data would not do.

“Open this door immediately, young lady. You can weigh your head some other time.”

“I want to know how much my head weighs now.” To this day, I have no idea why I had to know the weight of my five-year-old head. Nor do I know what guardian angel of reckless five-year-olds inspired me to climb up the shelves and get the hand-mirror, because using that important tool, I could both lay my head on the scale, and read the resulting weight.

When my mom’s magic bobby pin unlocked the bathroom door, I was putting away the hand-mirror, and quite pleased with myself. My family was enormously entertained–genius is often misunderstood–but I bet they don’t know how much their heads weigh.

What stories does your family tell about you? What stories do you tell when you get together with old friends or family? To one commenter, I’ll send a $50 Amex gift card, but you have to say nice thing about me if the topic of how to weigh your head ever comes up.




Clothes Maketh the Horsewoman

I have resumed my equestrian education. I’m three lessons in, and have walked, trotted, and–wheee!!!–cantered both directions on an elderly school horse named Jack. I love him. He loves treats. We’re getting along just fine.

I’ve also just finished A Duke in Shining Armor by Loretta Chase. For the most part, when an author includes fashion descriptions, I yawn, but Loretta uses fashion to symbolize story elements–like a fussy, flouncy, hard-to-get-out-of wedding dress that’s all wrong for the pragmatic, whip smart heroine.

What has Lady Olympia’s wedding dress to do with riding lessons? Well, you can’t just slap on your schooling tights and head out to the barn. I have to get some layers on my top half, because even though it’s 25 degrees out, after leading himself around in deep sawdust for twenty minutes, I don’t need a coat. Then too, you have to get your hair all tidied up and out of the way.

As I’ve resumed the routine of dressing for my lessons, I’ve noticed a few things. First, my paddock boots have about a one-inch heel. This is to stop the foot from sliding through the stirrup iron, but the effect on me is a slight increase in height. The paddock boot also protects the toes from mis-steps by a half-ton equine. They are substantial footwear, and my footsteps announce my stride when I’m wearing them.

I wear winter schooling tights for my lessons, which have an elastic waistband, and suede patches on the inside of the knee. That patch helps me grip the saddle more snugly, and protects the inside of my calves from being pinched by the stirrup leathers.

Everything I wear for riding is for my safety or for my comfort. NOTHING is designed with a primary aim of enhancing my attractiveness, making me look skinny, or hiding my bulges. Interestingly, riding is a sport where men and women wear the same attire–unlike our Olympic beach volleyball athletes.

I can’t think of any other venue where the dress code is for my safety and comfort–none. Not the courthouse (no open-toed shoes… why? Are my bare toes that distracting?), not church (cover my hair because that was a cultural norm 2000 years ago?), not the office. My Chico’s duds are cold in winter and hot in summer, and in the Chico’s store, the nice ladies are usually whispering “slim secrets” (which always involve the purchase of accessories) before I’ve tried on the first outfit.

Reflecting on how much I love riding attire makes me aware that when when you tell somebody how to dress, you are to some extent telling them who they should be. Wear those stilettos, and so what if they will result in a hip replacement by the time you’re 55. Wear the perfume, because the smell of horse, hay, and leather isn’t attractive, unless it’s on a guy. Wear the smile, because…

What items in your wardrobe are for your comfort and safety? When have you told the dress code or the fashion police to get lost? To two commenters, I’ll send… a $25 American Express gift card, which I hope you spend on something comfy to add to your wardrobe.


Just STOP–no really, Stop!

In my travels this week, I came across the concept of a ‘stopping cue.’ These are the zillion tiny signals dotting our lives that tell us to end an activity. Way back when, the five o’clock whistle would blow, and we’d down tools and head home.  The sun would set, we’d go to bed.

In print books, you have scene and chapter breaks, and at the very end you get those Dear Reader letters from your truly, but then… the book is over with. Time to let the dog out for last call and go to sleep.

A stopping cue is a big help in regulating health and well being, because it becomes something we don’t have think about, like stop signs. You see that red octagon with four white letters in the middle, and in very short order, you don’t have think, “Oh, time to bring the car to a complete cessation of motion.” Your foot just moves from the gas to the brake, while you keep impressing the world with your roadtrip karaoke, musical genius that you are.

When our stopping cues are gone, we have to use a lot more energy and focus to remain oriented and self-regulated, like trying to diet in the midst of multiple smorgasbords filled with favorite recipes.

In one area of life, there has been a concerted effort to remove stopping cues, and that’s on our screens. We can now “binge watch” entire seasons of television shows at once. Social media will dazzle our wondering eyes with a bottomless sea of personal content, camouflaging the fact that we’re really staring at a tabloid shopper. The news cycle is now 24 hours, and all of it sticky with anxiety-producing negativity. You can play Minesweeper until your arm falls off, not just until the quarter runs out.

As I look at the approaching new year, I already know I want to pay more attention to stopping cues, and to protecting the ones I have. There are places I won’t be taking my iPhone (like the dinner table), days I won’t be on social media (aiming for two a week), and times I won’t be scrolling email (outside business hours). I suspect at first, rebuilding some of these boundaries will be hard, but I grew up without any social media, and calling during the dinner hour has always been considered rude.

Have you felt an erosion of stopping cues in your life? Have you built any into your day or your week? What did you used to do with your personal time, before screens became our default mode?

I’m sending out three give-aways this week, because our list last week was so impressive: an audio recording of Jack: The Jaded Gentleman Book IV, a glittery amaryllis from Hirt’s Nursery, and a pound of Mary See’s dark chocolate marzipan.