So there I was on my weekly sortie to the horse barn, and a little snow squall blew through. The temperature was hovering around 40F, so nothing was going to stick, but the wind was ferocious, and the day FELT cold enough to snow.

When I realized, “Hey, it’s snowing!” my heart leapt up. My pleasure in the moment was spontaneous, but as predictable as winter itself. I love the sight of the first snow flurries and always have. In my family, there’s an oft-told story of one of my brothers, calling home from some far-away young adult adventure, and the pretext for his call was simply to crow to my mother, “It’s snowing!”

When I got home from the horse barn, I found an email from one of my sisters warning me that if a box of bulbs showed up in the mail without a note, that was her Christmas present to me–early enough so I could plant them before the ground froze. I typically plant several hundred bulbs each fall, and the thought of having yet still more to play with maketh me to smile. That my sister knows me well enough to add to my bulb stash is another cause for joy. (And if I run out of room on my own two acres to plant bulbs, I go freestylin’ up in the woods.)

Why do I like to plant flowers? Since childhood, I have enjoyed playing in the dirt. Flower gardening means I  can be outside, away from life’s vexations, puttering around with simple tools in hopes of making my springtime a little cheerier.

Reading was also a childhood pastime. My father believed that television was the devil’s invitation to idleness and mental passivity, so we were forbidden to watch TV on school nights (unless the Grinch was on, or a Charlie Brown special… Dad made a few exceptions). But we were allowed to read anything we could get our hands on, and I recall at least one summer when my mom got me to the library often enough that I read through every musical biography they had.

All of this puts me in mind of what a very experienced foster care supervisor told me years ago: We know which kids will probably succeed following a foster care experience, and which kids are more likely fail. Two factors separate the successes and failures in most cases. First, somebody showed the successes a healthy definition of love, and, second, somebody also saw to it that those kids had a healthy definition of play–recreation, messing around, having a good time, and enjoying themselves.

In the current situation, I can see how absolutely vital it is that I have the time and means to play. To hug a horse, to delight in snowflakes smacking me in the face, to curl up with a good book (Captain Lacey, represent!), or to while away an hour digging in the dirt restores my soul.

Do you play as you did in childhood? Is there a form of recreation you enjoyed earlier in life that you hope to get back to? To one commenter, I’ll send a $50 Amazon gift card.

As I write this, Maryland is reporting its highest daily increase in COVID cases ever–by a big margin. At the grocery store yesterday, the paper goods aisle was more empty than stocked, and our schools state-wide have gone back to remote learning.

Not this again. But we know what to do–stay home, mask up, wash up. We’ve  figured that much out.

I’ve spent the past week attending a virtual writer’s workshop, and to hear the voices of people I know, inside my own house (coming through my Zoom screen) was disorienting because for months, that hasn’t happened. I haven’t associated with any of my familiars (except a few outdoor lunches with Graham). No writers conferences, no trips with my sisters. Nada.

It is important to properly prepare for your Zoom meeting.

And my situation is not unusual, except perhaps in that I live alone in the sparsely-populated countryside. I can walk for miles around my neighborhood and meet nobody in real life. (My neighborhood is rife with Regency characters not visible to the naked eye.) So the challenge for me, as we head into the big, bad winter, is how to connect up.

My six siblings have been a lot more text-y in recent months, and for major topics (one brother with a young daughter asked the sisters about playing with dolls), we’ll take it to email. One sister with progeny in Denmark is a pretty adept Facetimer. My Zoom skills certainly improved this past week, and I will propose to my sibs that we play Brady Bunch in my personal Zoom meeting room.

I’m seeing more content from my family on social media, and with my sisters, at least, we do occasionally talk on the phone–very occasionally. I suspect this winter we’ll resort to the phones more frequently, along with more email threads. I would not normally interact with my family all that much, but enforced isolation, a looming threat to everybody’s well being, and sheer loneliness will likely result in a different–and better–family dynamic.

How are you preparing for the COVID bonus rounds nobody wanted to see? In particular, how are you staying connected with the people you care about, and keeping the love going? How are you dealing with anxiety, and when this is all over (we will get through this!) how will you celebrate?

Because stocking up on books should be part of everybody’s coping strategy, I’ll send a $50 Amazon, Kobo, Apple, or Barnes & Noble gift card to one commenter–your choice of retailer.

I have stayed productive this week, the way my mom used to stay busy as a means of coping with anxiety. I’m not writing new words lately, but I surely did buzz through Lady Daisy’s copy edits, and I found a cover image for Andrew, and I got both Gareth: Lord of Rakes (republished version) and the Holiday Duet uploaded onto the web store… I’ve done my daily steps like a boss, kept an appointment with the derm (and the liquid nitrogen keritosis zapper), and read a ton of amazing manuscript pages for an upcoming writer’s workshop.

All of which helps me feel more able to cope with a daunting world. And yet, staying busy is just one coping mechanism. For me, it also helps to have things to look forward to, and lots of ’em. The smiley faces on my calendar remind me that life is sweet, I have friends and writin’ buddies, my work matters, and I have reasons to rejoice. What’s on my things to look forward to that list?

A new Difficult Dukes title from Loretta Chase comes out Dec. 1, 2020: Ten Things I Hate About the Duke. ANYTHING written by Loretta Chase is cause for joy on my TBR shelf.

I’m having lunch (take out, consumed outside, sitting six feet apart) with my friend Graham. This solves all the problems of the world in about two hours flat.

The first snow flurries. We had the first frost last week. Next comes snow (but not the day I have lunch with Graham, please)!!!

Bridgerton!!! The first episode airs Christmas Day, so move over John Thornton, Mr. Rochester, and Darcy, because you have excellent company and lots of it.

Closing on the sale of my daughter’s house. We had three offers within 72 hours, and for that, I am so grateful I could just about swoon.

The blooming of my amaryllises. I have one that’s on its fourth bloom, but I’m sure I will acquire amaryllises as well. I find flowers more irresistible than ever in winter.

Spotting my first cardinal of the winter.

Baking homemade bread. I do this when it’s REALLY cold, which is also the only time I allow myself hot chocolate. Winter is for comfort food.

Climbing to bed at the end of each day with Gus (has the best purr), and a good book. I consider ending my day this way one of the greatest luxuries known to humanity. I’m reading a biography of Thomas Hardy at present–the Victorians were mighty peculiar.

And, lest we forget, next week’s publication of The Truth About Dukes. Both the Library Journal and Publishers Weekly gave Robert and Constance’s tale starred reviews, and at least for me, that never happens, so I’m doubly excited to see this story hit the shelves. What are YOU looking forward to? To three commenters, I’ll send signed print copies of The Truth About Dukes!

Mrs. Bennet, the fluttery, ineffectual, anxious mother from Pride and Prejudice generally comes across as a comic figure, one whose foolishness stands in high relief to Lizzie’s common sense and insight. And yet, it’s Mrs. Bennet–the fool–who puts her finger on the central injustice in the book: Longbourn is entailed to the heirs male, as most large estates were, and the five women who call that place home will be left with nothing when Mr. Bennet dies. That is, plainly, absolutely not fair, and when Mrs. Bennet says as much, she’s ridiculed.

That injustice was central to Jane Austen’s life. She, her mother, and sister were cast upon the charity of her brothers when Mr. Austen died. One of those brothers was quite wealthy, and yet, the household established for the three women was humble. Why didn’t Jane or her sister simply marry? Three of their sisters-in-law died in childbirth, one after her tenth lying in. Wasn’t Regency society just a wonderful place for women?

Mrs. Bennet said what Jane could not: To be a woman forced to depend on male honor is terrifying.

Fools can get away with speaking the truth, and those who ought to take note can dismiss the fool as a fool, and ignore the truth. I’ve been struck in recent years by how much good news reporting John Oliver and his ilk can do–shining the unflattering light of truth in many directions–while calling what they offer humorous commentary. Other late night fools have done likewise, and we listen to them. They educate, annoy, provoke, and amuse us, but we listen to them.

When I first worked in a newsroom, I was taken aback by how dark the humor was, but then I got used to it, and eventually came to appreciate it. The foul language, cynicism, and inside jokes became a sort of fortification against all the misery peddled as news.

The same thing happened in the foster care court room. Over the years, the bailiffs, clerks, and attorneys all developed a kind of humor that you couldn’t grasp if you hadn’t put in those years with us. The quips were occasionally nasty or vulgar (also sometimes brilliant) and a shorthand way of saying, “This is a sad, tough place to work, but at least we work here together.”

We haven’t had much to laugh about this year, but still, there is humor to be found. Where have you been finding a good laugh (or a bad one), a chuckle, something to smile at, despite that truth it might convey?

To three commenters, I will send signed UK versions of The Truth About Dukes. These are big, pretty paperbacks (kitten not included) and I will send them anywhere in the world. (C’mon, Nov. 10!!!)

So the prognostications are, the pandemic is going to smack us harder than ever this winter. Pandemic fatigue, indoor socializing, and weather the virus likes will conspire to prolong our misery. Well, phooey.

I’m put in mind, though, of the Great Depression, which lasted ten years by most estimates. My parents both recalled the Depression, which began in their childhoods, as a pleasant time. What’s up with that?

On Dad’s side, it was a time when his parents got along (they eventually divorced, long before it was popular). Grandpa was in charge of handing out subcontracts for the Long Island Railroad, and because businesses were desperate for his goodwill, he had better job security (and more perks) than at other times in his career.

On Mom’s side, her parents had to travel from Spokane, Washington, to Bangor, Maine, with four kids, because jobs for her mining engineer father were thin on the ground. She liked seeing the country, oddly enough. A road trip was just a big adventure to her. Imagine that.

For a time, her family doubled up with an uncle’s family, and all the kids bunked in the same room. She loved it, loved having more family around, loved having a chance to grow close to her cousins. Her family never was particularly well off, and from her childish point of view, the Depression didn’t make them much more poor.

I suspect my parents looked back–past Vietnam, Korea, WWII (Dad was in the Navy, Mom was a nurse) to a childhood that by comparison, was at least a childhood. The adults fretted over jobs, groceries, and places to live, the children just carried on. In both cases, they carried on in circumstances that to them, offered significant consolations.

I hope when this pandemic has subsided, we too will look back and see some consolations. For years, I prided myself on not owning a TV, not watching TV, not no TV, not no-how. Welp, there’s a pandemic on now. I’ve discovered British mystery series in the past six months, and I enjoy them. I suspect some people will always have a pandemic play list, pandemic comfort food carry out, and recall pandemic Zoom calls with Grannie.

Some news announcer got suspended last week because he inadvertently flashed his co-workers in a Zoom meeting. That is a boo-boo we can ALL  chuckle over, because now there’s such a thing as pandemic humor.

This is not a fun time, but in small ways, we are all making it as bearable as we can. For me, that means DCI Vera Stanhope and Inspector Lynley are my new friends. I’ve also visited with my neighbors while out walking more in the past six months than in the previous six years. For one of my writin’ buddies, pandemic coping has meant crocheting so much she’s opened up an Etsy store and is generating some craft income.

It’s not ALL awful, is it? How are you making it bearable, or what do you think you might recall about this time with a smile? To three commenters, I’ll send signed copies of The Truth About Dukes.

I normally end my day with a journal entry, all about my illustrious doin’s, how many steps I got in, what books I worked on. Not exactly late breaking news, but the process of reviewing and documenting the day helps me say good job and goodnight. I also list at least five things about that day that I’m grateful for.

That’s a good exercise for hitting re-set on my gratitude-o-meter, but I’m also aware that I’m tired of this danged pandemic. I’m tired of politics, financial upheaval, the publishing industry shooting around the room like a deflating balloon, and Not Being Allowed to Go to Scotland (I’m really tired of that).

So I’ve added another exercise to my sign-off routine. I ask myself: What did I enjoy today? It’s easy to know what upset me–my ignorant neighbor, Amazon’s “quality” dashboard, social media trolls, my sore thumb–and negativity has an insidious stickiness that makes dwelling on that stuff too easy. So I’ve been focusing instead  on all the little joys, and they are myriad.

I have a cat named Oscar, a young male, all black. He is soooooo soft, softer than mink. He’s a shy guy, but he likes to be petted, and I have delighted in our growing friendship. I cannot touch his fur and be tense. He’s that soft and sweet.

The sunlight this time of year is to me the most beautiful of all seasons. There’s something especially clear and lovely about mid-autumn sunlight, and it makes me think of my mother, who associated that light with “the night before the first frost.”

Then there’s my daily cup of jasmine green tea–one cup only, though I could swill this stuff by the gallon–and how it never fails to taste special. I have to watch my caffeine consumption, but I would sorely miss this little indulgence if I had to give it up.

Another joy is the big, red dinner plate dahlias growing by my driveway. They are bold, bright, and coming on strong when all the other flowers are going peaked and wan on me. I want to be like those dahlias, a late season bloomer who doesn’t know when to fade into elderly obscurity.

I delight in my flannel sheets. My sister gave them to me and I can’t wait for the nights to cool off enough so I can bust ’em out and get snuggly. I’m still riding the horse only once a week, but the time I spend with old Santiago is peaceful and dear. I get off him with a sense of, “We still got it, dude!” when all we do is walk, trot, and canter (both directions!).

Mondays are my pizza day, when I let myself start the week with a pizza slathered in black olives and extra cheese. It’s my one occasion of carby-cheesy bliss each week, and it never fails to restore a sense of abundant pleasure. This is all it takes for me to look forward to Mondays. Wish I’d figured this out decades ago.

My days are full of joy and pleasure, but it’s easy to lose sight of my riches. The big, bad frustrating world is still there, and it’s still my responsibility to do what I can do battle the darkness and overcome the forces of eeee-vil, but I will be a more effective warrior if I also remember and delight in my joys.

What is delighting you these days? To three commenters, I’ll send a $25 Amazon gift card.

As we trudge along toward the November election, I’m sensing as I cruise social media and chat up my neighbors, a crushing fatigue with divisiveness itself. Bashing the Libs/MAGAs/NWLs/Whoevers doesn’t FIX anything. It saps our energy for grappling with even issues we can almost all agree need serious attention–homeless veterans, gun safety reform, or climate change, for example (and those are three areas of broad consensus among all voters, by the way).

We get so blinded by labels that we lose the ability to debate ideas independent of the people espousing them. Conflict expert Julia Dhar’s TED talk does a great job of unpacking how to separate identity from idea, and focus instead on the start of all constructive debates–the big areas of broad agreement. One exercise she suggests for limbering up our “start with agreement” muscle is to think of a topic on which we have changed our minds.

Welp, lessee… When I started doing child welfare law, I thought social workers were without question a good resource to involve in a troubled family’s situation. Good social workers know good stuff–about community programs, about how to discuss hard things without riling the people involved, about how family problems become a Rubik’s cube of can’t afford, don’t know how, and too beat down to try again. Send in the social workers!

I wasn’t all wrong and I still think social workers are a great idea. But when a community’s default response to an unsupervised child or wandering grannie is merely to dial a hotline, the whole concept of community, much less neighborhood or family, is weakened. There’s a balance to strike, between we are all in this together, and knowing when problems should be put into the hands of the professionals.

It took me a while to see that having that emergency hotline is a good thing–but it can come at a subtle and far-reaching cost. If it’s social services’ problem (or the cops’, or the HOA’s) it is no one person’s job, and the nature and quality of the solution becomes immediately limited by the institution called in to deal with it.

I came to see much of the child welfare system in the same skeptical light. I went into the task thinking I had some solid answers, but closer acquaintance with reality turned my answers into questions. I was a better child advocate for that leavening of skepticism. I had a more open and creative mindset, and when is that ever a bad thing?

When have you changed your mind, or come to see a hard answer as a less than perfect solution? To three commenters, I’ll send $25 Amazon gift cards, because the holidays are coming, and we have all been so very good this year.

(Which reminds me… This month’s Deal is a Republished Regency holiday novella duet for $1.99 in the webstore. Details here.)

One of my writing heroines is author Jennifer Ashley. If all she’d done was write The Madness of Lord Ian MacKenzie, she would have my undying respect, because that book took the romance genre is a new and wonderful direction. (Autism spectrum historical romance hero, done beautifully.) Jennifer has also weathered many industry storms, she shares her time and wisdom generously with other authors, and she has perfected the art of being herself on social media.

Much there to admire, and one of her recent Facebook posts was along the lines of, “I walked 2.5 miles this morning and it was nothing’. There was a time when that would have been an unthinkable challenge. I’m proud of myself for how far I’ve come!” That attitude, of being proud of an achievement many other people might think was a big so-what, fortifies me to go on my own 2.5 miles walks and be proud of myself.

Joanna Bourne is another personal heroine. To look at Jo, you’d think, “Sweet little old lady. She probably knits baby blankets for her myriad great-nieces and great-nephews, and makes her own organic low-sugar jam.” Meanwhile, Jo has lived (as in for years at a time) in seven different countries (including Nigeria and Saudi Arabia), has a master’s degree in marine biology, bagged two RITA awards, and can tell you stories about life in the foreign service that will make your jaw drop.

She’s also a brilliant, generous, funny, highly creative writer, and when I was a tadpole author, she offered me much steadying advice and writin’ buddy friendship. I found my balance as a writer much faster and with much less drama than I would have otherwise because of Jo.

I am a rabid fan of writing coach, agent, author, and teacher Donald Maass. He is passionately devoted to helping authors turn good books into better books, which is a thankless and exacting task on a good day. Don works enormously hard at what he does, which means unique among the writing coach crowd, his material is always being refreshed. Unlike many, he’s not giving the same workshop (for more money) that he was tossing out ten years ago.

As I spend day after day after day at home, I am still fortified by my associations with these people and others like them. Some I bounce across on social media, some I can visit by reading their books. Some I can email, and I am so very, exceedingly grateful that technology allows me these contacts. I am alone, and I’m never alone, and the company I’ve met along the way continues to cheer me.

Whom do you admire? Is there anybody in particular whose company has cheered you along the way this year? To two commenters, I’ll send a signed print copy of My Heart’s True Delight.

I woke up in a bad mood a few Fridays ago, ready to go Tasmanian Devil on the first troll I came across on social media. Saturday wasn’t much better, cluttered with little tech problems that felt like assaults on my dignity. The predictable speed bumps with my Work in Progress became insurmountable rock walls, so I did what I usually do in such situations and started a new manuscript. So there, Sycamore Dorning.

Even that didn’t help.

Then I came across an opinion piece by a guy who’s living in NorCal and watching–again–while climate change devastates the wilderness and communities he loves. He mentioned that Armstrong Woods State Natural Reserve is “wiped out,” and I had to stop what I was doing and fetch a tissue.

Armstrong Woods was a bucket list destination that I actually got to see. The biggest, oldest, most wonderful trees I have ever met live there. I am a rabid fan of big trees generally, and to me, that was a holy day spent in a holy place. That place is lost forever, along with some trees more than a thousand years old. The whole woods is gone, and the word for what I am feeling–about the trees, about the planet, about faith in democracy, about human life–is grief.

In the midst of successive overlapping crises, I have failed to notice all the loss. That failure to notice is normal, a coping mechanism that allows us to function while battles rage. This is part of the reason why soldiers suffering post-traumatic stress disorder just want to get back to their units. We hurt less inside when we have an external threat to focus on.

But the hurting must be dealt with. That came home to me when I saw all the 9-11 memorial posts on social media. We lost thousands of lives that day, lost our innocence about the price of making enemies, lost a little faith in humanity, and much more. This year has been like 9-11 twenty times over in terms of unanticipated loss of life, and that’s without politics gone nasty, wild fires, global warming, and 10 percent unemployment.

We have lost loved ones, faith in hallowed institutions, and tremendous swathes of natural resources. Individually, we’ve lost income, businesses, property, and for many who have survived the virus, lifelong health. We are awash in reasons to grieve–and in reasons to support one another and look for common ground.

Putting the grief label on my irritability and sadness helps a little, but I suspect focusing my sorrow and anger on action that restores the light will help more. I will plant more trees, I will get on my federal representatives about passing a carbon tax, I will support organizations getting out the vote. I will stop and visit with my neighbors when I’m  perambulating, and ask those living near me how they’re doing.

And isn’t it interesting that I just published a story about a hero struggling with episodes of the mulligrubs? What are you grieving, and how do you honor that grief or use it to motivate you to action? To three commenters, I’ll send signed print copies of My Heart’s True Delight.

My daughter lives in Oregon, about ten miles (as I write this) from the Holiday Farm Fire, which has consumed 170,000 acres and is only ten percent contained. A wild fire can cover ten miles in a night, easily. A good writin’ buddy lives in southern Louisiana, where hurricane season is pouring misery down by the bucketful. I also have family in coastal California, and their reasons to wear a mask even indoors are just piling up.

Between hoping for rain in Oregon, and hoping it will stop raining in Louisiana, I know this is not, for many people, anything approaching a wonderful time of year. September has been just one more month in a grueling progression of months, and October isn’t looking too cheery either.

And yet, I still find things to love about the transition from summer to fall. I love, in fact, that nature where I am, despite tantrums and tragedy elsewhere, is just rolling placidly along as she has all year. Nights are dipping into the forties, days are coolish and getting shorter. I find so much to delight in this time of year, including…

Fuzzy beasts. The horses and cats especially, are growing winter finery. They look more cuddly and are lovely to pet.

Hot soup. Pepper pot, French onion (servi avec gruyère, bien sûr!), broccoli cheddar… I could rhapsodize for pages about the the pleasure of a hot bowl of soup, warm homemade bread, and a house smelling of fresh baked wonderfulness.

Hot drinks. I always love a hot cuppa tea first thing in the day, but when temperatures drop, hot tea is even better. Also hot chocolate, hot mulled cider. Toddies. Irish coffee…

Fall flowers. Zinnias, asters, the last blast of the roses, pansies ready to hunker down for winter, chrysanthemums in a zillion colors… The flowers make a brilliant last stand this month.

Oatmeal, with cinnamon, nuts, blueberries, a dash of cream, butter, or–blame my dad–a scoop of ice cream and a sprinkle of brown sugar. Yes, he went there. For BREAKFAST.

Fuzzy socks! They deserve a blog post of their own.

Long sleeves, fleece, and all the soft, comfy, cozy cold weather clothes. (Especially the ones that mean with enough layers, I don’t have to wear a danged bra when I go off the property.)

Extra blankies. I’m probably one of those people who could benefit from a weighted blanket. Instead I leave the heat off in my bedroom and burrow under flannel sheets (thanks, sister Maire), and lots of quilts. Of course it takes the thought of a mug of hot tea to get me out of my nest in the morning.

Dramatic sunsets. Those brilliant red, orange, and magenta sunsets are already starting where I am (probably due to wild fire smoke plumes), and they are impressive.

Shorter days, meaning longer evenings to wind down, read, read, and read. And that reminds me…

My Heart’s True Delight, an autumn HEA, goes on sale at the retail outlets on Tuesday. I’ll put a signed copy in the mail to each of three commenters. Just tell us what, if anything, you are enjoying about this time of year. (Or what you are NOT enjoying!)