I can well recall two little pieces of paper taped to the inside of my dad’s bedroom closet door. One said, “Look sharp, feel sharp, be sharp.” (This baffled me as a kid. My dad was old and bald. To whom could he have been giving fashion advice?) The other said, “Can I do without, fix what I’ve got, or use something else?”

That my smart and serious Dad had to resort to asking himself a question like that caught my interest. On the one hand, he clearly sought a dapper appearance. On the other, he disapproved of unnecessary spending. His question–Can I do without, fix what I’ve got, or use something else?–was a guardian angel defending him from the error of wasting money.

I have since kept my nose in the wind, sniffing the breeze for useful questions. “What is the problem we are trying to solve?” can cut through a lot of squabbling and subtext or illuminate mis-matched agendas in a group. “What is the smallest, easiest step I can take in the direction I want to go?” can get me off my duff when I’m feeling daunted and despairing.

I had occasion to think about my trove of useful questions when I recently attended a presentation by Adrienne Freeland about a program that combines horsemanship education with learning about grief. The pairing is unusual, but according to program participants, highly beneficial to those who’ve lost a loved one.

I wondered when I read the marketing description for Adrienne’s presentation what could have inspired her to blend these two apparently distinct circles? The answer is… a “dreadful” experience in a grief counseling situation. Adrienne had sustained yet another loss in a life overly full of bereavement, and had signed herself up for a program dealing with loss of a loved one.

The program convened in a musty courthouse basement, on rickety, mismatched chairs, gathered around a folding table. She endured the first session, then asked herself, “Could I put together something better than this?” and got a resounding yes for an answer.

Her story resonated with me for the way her deep disappointment became a catalyst for action. I can point to any number of authors whose writing careers started in disappointment. There I was, depending on one of my desert island keeper authors to take me away from a particularly stressful phase of my life, when I got out the new release I’d been saving for a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency moment.

The book was a howling dud (to me. I’m sure it sold splendidly). I was soooo disappointed.

“Can I do better than this?” My answer was not a resounding yes, but it was positive enough that within a few years, I could support myself with the results. So I now include in my collection of useful questions, “Ok, I’m disappointed. Maybe bitterly disappointed. Could I do a better job than this person did? How? What would set my mousetrap apart? What is my disappointment telling me about how to achieve a better outcome? How can my disappointment inspire me?”

Has disappointment ever inspired you to take on a challenge and get it done right?

I’ve sent out my first batch of Advanced Reader Copy files for The Mysterious Marquess (and the web store ebook and Amazon print version are already available), but if you’d like an ARC, email me at [email protected]. If I have any ARCs left, I’ll send one along.

One of the many things I love about growing older is that I occasionally stumble into situations where I can combine skills and experience gained in different parts of my life.

Fr’instance, people who ride horses competitively occasionally put together what is called a musical freestyle or kur. This involves choreographing a mounted routine to music, such that your horse performs a series of required movements, set to the music of your choosing in the pattern you devise. The results, when they go well and you are among the best in the world, can look something like this.

Well, holy Ned, Batman. I have a degree in music, I accompanied dance classes at the piano for several busy years, and I love me some horse riding. The few times I’ve taken a swing at creating a musical freestyle have been great fun.

Similarly, I love to write fiction, and I love horses. When I can build a horse and rider relationship into a story, I am having big fun. Lord Julian better be careful, because he and Atlas are buds, and I foresee a possible horse thief in their future… Oh nos!

I love languages, and flowers, and children, and beasts, and trees… and any time I can bring these loves together, I get a boost. What occurs to me at this later stage of life, though, is that to develop more than a passing fondness for my various interests, I’ve had to do some deep diving, and then move on. If I’d stayed on that piano bench chopping classical piano repertoire into eight measure phrases for the benefit of the Ballet II class, I would probably never have learned about musical freestyles.

If I’d dodged motherhood, my understanding of children might still be well informed, but it would come from a narrower perspective. If I’d never taken on flower-erizing my own property, I would not grasp quite as easily why deer who nom-nom all the sunflowers in a single night are justification for profanity (they got my first foray into grapes too, the miserable blighters).

If I’d never taken off my grant and proposal writing hat, I would not have had the time or energy to write fiction, because grant and proposal writing consumes all in its path.

To get to a place where I can enjoy combining and synergizing my skills and interests, I had to reach later life, and I had to do a fair bit of letting go and moving on. The reward for moving on is that I can resurrect my enthusiasms in a new context, and keep more of the joy without having to also take on the narrow focus and intensity of earlier life.

Has life ever given you an opportunity to combine interests and abilities? Have you ever moved on from one skill set only to call it back into active duty years later?

If you ride horses long enough, you hear the parable of the thirteenth rabbit, usually to explain why an otherwise steady, reliable mount lost his little horsey marbles over “nothing.” The story goes something like this:

You’re riding along on a familiar trail and a bunny darts across the path. Your horse, who can’t see very well at ground level, stops short, maybe hops a bit, and is reluctant to go forward. You gently convince this half-ton prey animal that what he half-saw was not a copperhead or horse-eating demon, but rather, “just” a rabbit. Your horse minces forward, but he is built by evolution to accelerate away from threats much faster than his system decelerates when the threat has been resolved.

When, five minutes later, another rabbit cuts from the undergrowth, your horse hops again, snorts again, and halts abruptly. You pat him. “Silly horse. It’s another rabbit. Stop trying to mess with me.”

Except the horse is not trying to mess with the rider. The horse never regained the “all quiet” level of functioning he enjoyed before the first rabbit disturbed his peace. Adrenaline, cortisol, and heart rate all remain elevated, and rabbit No. 2 elevates them further as does rabbit No. 3.

At some point, the same stimuli that caused only a stop and hop, if compounded, causes a full horsey meltdown.

I tell you this story not because I expect you be on horseback when the thirteenth rabbit crosses the trail, but because my house has been hopping-bunny central this summer. The well pump and tank needed replacement–both at the same time. My ancient Prius flipped me the oil light and the tire pressure sensor light the same day. I busted a tooth and in the course of getting that repaired was told I need a crown and also an extraction.

The computer died, and figuring out how to plug in the back up hard drive has a been lunar landing. Various pets have had emergent issues (RIP Gus), and for reasons known only to demented laprines, I decided to write my first holiday mystery this summer. Ho-ho, uh-oh.

Each of these challenges is manageable. This is all, as my daughter says, “life life-ing as usual.” But cram them all together, with no time in between to find my balance, and I’m about ready to start bucking and bolting.

Fortunately, this is not my first trail ride, and I know that a good dose of domestic solitude works wonders on my equilibrium. Give me a couple days at home without human interruptions (plumbers in the basement are an interruption), and I will calm way down. Hand me some good books for my end of day reading hour, and I will start to relax. Give me the authority to organize my days at home according to what I find important (not necessarily what is urgent), and my breathing slows.

These things–good books, autonomy, solitude on the one patch of ground I own–get me out of the yellow alert zone, and I can have all of them if I’ll just exhibit some patience and planning. If I cannot have them, though, my limit drops to three rabbits, and one of those is imaginary.

How do you regain your calm in the midst of overwhelm? Three commenters will go on my ARC list for The Mysterious Marquess.

I subscribe to a very few newsletters, among them Dense Discovery. This is a weekly dose of graphic design, tech skepticism, and climate awareness leavened with grace, warmth, and humor.

One feature of Dense Discovery that I particularly enjoy is the Worthy Five, which asks five questions of an individual whose biography might be “graphic design survivor and mother of twins….” or, “cartographer and bread baker.” The emphasis is not on what the contributor has accomplished, but on what they’ve learned along the way. One week’s worthy five might be an interesting quote, a worthwhile podcast, a great recipe, a light bulb concept, and a website that is truly worth a visit.

Treasures picked up along the way are shared in one or two sentences with fellow wayfarers around the digital campfire. It’s helpful, great fun, and highly personal to each contributor. I got to thinking about that notion of light bulb concepts as it applies to my own experience.

One insight that has cut across many of my domains is the distinction between expressive language skills and receptive language skills, and how the people who talk the best game might actually be deficient when it comes to the other side of the coin. What do I mean by this?

An example: I’m sitting in a big session at a writer’s conference listening to a Top Dawg expound about book marketing. She’s confident, she’s citing data, she’s poised and relentlessly articulate, even has a few funny asides. Then somebody who is just a regular dawg asks a question, and gets a beat of silence in response followed by a pivot to a pitch for the presenter’s next session or marketing book, or some other non-answer. This scenario is not unusual.

Somebody who talks a great game doesn’t necessarily have the receptive language chops that a much less flashy or “successful” person in the same field might bring to the table. The big dawg might struggle to comprehend what you’re telling her, to make sense of symbolism and metaphor, to integrate old and new information, to pick up on subtext and body language. They can send brilliantly, but they frequently drop the ball when it comes to receiving.

As glib as they are, as confident as they seem, their human insights are often limited. Precisely because they are so readily affirmed for their expressive skills, they are likely unaware of their shortcomings.

Once I caught onto this pattern, I spotted it everywhere–in publishing, in the courtroom, in the social services hierarchy (especially as you progress up that hierarchy), and in myself. I have to work hard at reflective listening, I can be impatient with people who can’t defend their opinions with facts. I do love to prose on for thousands and thousands of words, though. Ask me anything about writing a book and then try to get me to hush later the same day.

Have you collected personal insights into human nature? Relationships? Dealing with difficult people? A worthy one or two? Do share!

PS: Lord Julian’s third mystery, A Gentleman in Challenging Circumstances, is now available as an audio book.

I am putting this blog on hiatus for most of July in part because in this end of June/early July transition, I scheduled myself back-to-back weeks of (for me) high activity. This past week was five straight days of riding camp (kids on ponies, what could be more wonderful?), and next week I will be a camper on a pony. (We’d better get to paint rocks, too, just sayin’).

With a few other logistical planets refusing to conveniently leave or slow their orbits, I am in the middle of what I call a compression phrase. Life should ease up and simplify in a week or two, but I also know that I take longer to bounce back from exertion of any kind than I used to. If I was up at 5 am for nine out of ten consecutive mornings, I will need more than one day to get back to more and better sleep.

If I was out in the heat for nine out of ten days, I will be heat-zonked for more than a day, no matter how much I hydrate, use sun screen, and wear a hat. If my step count averaged 15k per day… and so forth.

But just now today–the one day out of ten when I don’t have to be anywhere or do much of anything–I am stockpiling as much rest and refreshment as I can. This has involved a day of solitude (so far, fingers crossed…). A day to stay home and not set bottom in driver’s seat or foot off home turf. A day when I can wear my jammies and flip-flops until noon (so stylish with my writing-day compression socks). A day when I can spend hours just reading my current Lord Julian work in progress (still have to write the denouement). I can drink three cups of de-caf tea to slowly, slowly get my engine turning over as I start the day at the computer.

By way of reward for a week well done and another challenging week on deck, I have busted out my stash of special occasion Highland Chocolatier’s Sao Tome dark chocolate truffles. This evening, I will probably go on a deadheading spree among the daisies, roses, and cone flowers. I should scrub the floors soon–nothing like humidity for making dirt stick to floors–but today is not that day. (Tomorrow might be.)

I could use several of these re-charging days back to back, but right now, I only get the one, and I am loving it. When I report for duty early tomorrow morning (duty I signed up for, which involves getting breakfast served to a bunch of horses), I will do so fortified by my version of a lovely day.

What is your version of a lovely, re-charging day after enduring a challenging schedule? To one commenter, I’ll send $100 Vera Bradley e-gift card.

PS: Look for my next blog post around July 20th or 27th. I’ll post about it on social and in my news feed, and send out a newsletter thereabouts. Until then, happy summer, happy reading, and may you all enjoy plenty of wonderful days!

I’m coming down the home stretch with the first draft of A Gentleman of Unreliable Honor. This will be Lord Julian’s sixth adventure and once again, our hero will be told to take his clues and get lost just as he’s growing certain more is at stake than missing ear bobs. Why am I so bent on inflicting on his lordship rejection of his sleuthing, the very thing he does best?

The answer is pretty simple: I want to hit him where it hurts, a lot.

When the last horse that I leased (dear old Santiago) went literally out to pasture, I cast around for another riding situation. Nobody I asked was interested in adding me as a student to their lesson program when I am not keen to buy another horse, I no longer have any interest in showing/competing, and I don’t care to clinic with the big names. My ambition is and was  to continue fostering a connection with a horse, period.

Buck and Grace, both of us about age 14

Barn doors were all but shut in my face as I attempted to find a way to do that, and man, that hurt. “Before I played the piano, baked brownies, or wrote in a journal, before anything else, I was a horse girl,” says me.

I practically memorized the World Book Encyclopedia article on horses. The only thing I taught myself to draw was the profile of a horse. Every year for my birthday and Christmas, I asked for a horse, and when my Barbie had no horse of her own, I stole my brother’s Johnny Quest horses for her to ride.

Horses helped me distinguish myself from a lively heap of accomplished siblings. Horses helped me move away from home as an adolescent, because to spend time with my noble steed, I bunked in with my godparents and their offspring for days at a time. Horses were how I dealt with pretty serious depression in my mid-thirties, and how I formed a lot of those middle-distance, low-stress relationships that can yet be a source of comfort and support on a bad day.

Stretch and Grace
Both of us middle-aged

Horses have been a lifeline between me and my daughter. And those… those people who gave me the bum’s rush were trying to convince me that I wasn’t a horse girl any more? That my horse girl identity had reached its expiration date?

I think not. Hence I knocked on the door of a therapeutic riding program whose motto is, “Love, Trust, Respect.” The experience of being rejected though, of being told I was surplus to requirements, not fit for duty, no longer welcome in a milieu I’d moved in for decades, stuck with me.

Lord Julian has turned to solving mysteries as a lifeline back to dignity, self-respect, and a valued place in society, however marginal. When he’s told to run along before his efforts bear fruit, he’s cut to the quick. Skills he risked his life to develop, lessons learned the hard-and-dangerous way, contributions he’s uniquely suited to making, and he’s supposed to run along?

Delray and Grace,
both of us having fun (I hope)!

He can’t. He can’t and he won’t, because he is a sleuth. It’s not a hobby, not diversion, not a job. It’s who he is.

Have you ever been told to take your hard-earned wisdom and sweat equity and just run along? Have you been tempted to take your sold gold marbles of experience and go home? To one commenter, I’ll send a $100 Amazon gift card (or Apple, Kobo, or B&N if that’s how you roll).

PS: I’ll be putting the blog on hiatus for a few weeks in July, because his lordship has some Christmas sleuthing to do, and I need to get cracking on that tale (along with a few other projects)!

I know not why, but for me the month of June often brings an extended case of the grumpy-blahs. This makes no sense. As a kid, school was my personal purgatory, and June should have been the high point of the year. I should be in the dumps come September if ancient history is still driving my year, but instead I tend to perk up when the weather cools off.

For whatever reason, I am the opposite of perky this time of year. I’m more anxious and down, more susceptible to the intentional evils of social media, despite how diligent I am about avoiding troll farms, doom scrolling, and so forth.

And yet, these annual clouds notwithstanding, there are also aspects of June that I find absolutely delightful. I have been purposely focusing on these glories lately in hopes of beating the blahs sooner rather than later.

Day lilies amaze me. A patch in even modestly favorable conditions can bloom every year for a century, and yet we name the plant based on the brief display made by each individual blossom. A flower with so much philosophical symbolism has to be worth appreciating.

Fireflies. They apparently tootle around in the soil doing Good Things for a two-year larval stage before they put on their magic show, and it is magic.

Verdure. Before the heat cranks up, and sometimes even if the heat cranks up, June present an embarrassment of greenery. Lawns, fields, forests, mountains… around me, it’s all green, and that is about the best anti-anxiety medication I know. As a gardener, I’m also reassured by the sheer tenacity of weeds. No matter how often I pull ’em up, and how many I toss on the compost heap, the weeds never give up. Blessed are the weeds.

Fresh air. Even though my house is powered with renewable energy, I avoid using air conditioning. Last  year, I resorted to a window unit for exactly twelve nights, turning it on for a couple hours to cool down my bedroom and then (usually) turning it off. I do, however, open up my house for the cooler hours–windows and doors, both floors, big fans whirling. Every way I can get fresh air into my space, I do it, and this is good for my mood and mind. I like a chilly, rainy day as well as anybody does, but a few of those back to back, and the air in my house feels manky. June is robustly a fresh air month.

The best showers of the year. Very little in the way of hedonistic pleasure compares with a cool shower at the end of a hot day, especially if I have been doing yard work or barn work. That sensation, of finally, finally getting cool and clean is utter, absolute bliss.

I could go on. Root beer popsicles (eighteen twin pops for $4.47 at my local Weis!) are proof of a benevolent deity, family summer picnics should be reason enough to fund our state and municipal parks. Birdsong in the  morning, cricket lullabies at night… this can be a lovely time of year.

Is there a season that seems to challenge you? A time of year when you seem to have more natural joie de vivre?

I am re-reading The Captive (re-released as The Captive Duke, because keywords rule the world). This exercise is in aid of cutting 15,000 words at the request of a foreign language publisher, and is frankly Not Going Well.

One thing I notice though, is the extent to which my protagonists, Gilly and Christian, grow closer by admitting to one another, essentially, “I can’t do this simple task right now. I need help. I am overwhelmed.” Both have a history of making those admissions to people who should have cared but absolutely did not. Both can hear the subtext from the other even when couched in innuendo, irony, and silence.

I am very fond of this book (and much prefer its original Jon Paul cover, above).

I also happen to be reading Supercommunicators, by Charles Duhigg. The author, whose earlier work largely informed thinking presented by James Clear of Atomic Habits fame, turns his sites on how we communicate, and specifically on the characteristics of those people we consider, “Easy to talk to.”

The easy-to-talk-to conversationalist makes a great hostage negotiator, juvenile parole officer, guidance counselor, therapist, grandma… They are an asset to almost any situation. Duhigg’s analysis of the research suggests that such people share an ability to decipher very quickly what the conversational subtext is.

Whaddazat mean? Duhigg says that most of the time, we’re having one of three different types of conversations, asking to be either helped, heard, or hugged. A conversation asking for assistance focuses on practical issues and problem solving. Hearing another person out often involves relationship or social identity issues, and somebody asking to be hugged is looking to clarify and validate emotions.

All three types of conversations can start with, “Thank heavens it’s Friday!” but the supercommunicator will quickly decipher whether what’s sought is assistance, reflective listening, or emotional engagement.

I am good at offering assistance, at thinking through resources and limitations, looking for critical paths and critical gates. This is more of my top-down thinking in action, but my strong suit also informs how I am most comfortable listening. Oddly enough, I am terrible at asking for practical help myself. Once I understand that somebody needs a sympathetic place to vent versus an experimental design consultant, I can be abundantly sympathetic, but I don’t always change the channel fast enough.

I’m even slower to pick up on conversations that probe relationships and social identity–Who are we? Who am I? Who are you? Can I trust you? What do you believe will always be true about yourself? Where are your boundaries and how do you enforce them?

Duhigg notes that supercommunicators listen more than they talk and listen actively. They will frequently loop back over old ground to ensure meanings and emotions were accurately interpreted. They are quick to use humor to create connections or signal their own vulnerability, and they have the courage to be genuine.

When I think about Gilly and Christian, and what they earned by listening to each other, being brave, taking time, and patiently clarifying signals and subtext, I am inspired to try harder at this easy-to-talk-to business. When I run across a gifted listener, my whole soul is more peaceful and I end the conversation feeling like a more interesting, worthwhile, and articulate version of myself.

Who listens to you? For whom do you make the effort to truly listen?

PS: The web store $.99 discount this month is my Highland Holidays novella quartet, because the day lilies are blooming and that means summer vacay is here at last!

I spent my morning volunteering at the barn today, and the weather was exquisite. By early afternoon, I was ready to go home and do jig saw puzzles or maybe think up a blog post, or just enjoy the glorious weather. I noticed, though, that our program director was sparkling about the barn aisle, arranging flowers, positioning a poster board on a wrought iron stand, assembling goodies, and generally preparing for Something.

Upon inquiry, I was told that a Silver Spurs occasiou was in the offing. A lady in the 97th year of her age had expressed a desire to reconnect with horses, a source of much joy in her earlier life. Her family took the request seriously, and Loudoun Therapeutic Riding agreed to collaborate to make “a dream come true.” The poster depicted this lady in her prime, and cited her accomplishments with one of her memorable equine partners.

She brought an entourage of family and friends, and a good time was had by all. I stayed for the part where she was driven around the farm in a two-wheeled one-horse cart. She even took the reins for a few moments herself. I don’t know if she ended up in the saddle, but the festivities looked headed in that direction.

What I thought as I drove home, was how marvelous to be in the business of making dreams come true. The occasion was joyous, great memories were made, and many pictures taken. The love for this woman was palpable, and I know I wasn’t the only person thinking, “When I’m 97, (if I’m ever 97), I hope I’m still dreaming, and I hope my dreams are still coming true.”

But then I got to thinking about the dreams of mine that already have come true. I passed the bar and was admitted to the practice of law. Lordy, that took a lot of work and years of studying, but I got to be a lawyer, and in a lot of ways, that was a good fit for my abilities.

I am a full-time published author. So many deserving people with so much talent haven’t been able to grab that brass ring, try though they might. I’ve hit the New York Times bestsellers list. Once upon a time, I had lunch with Mary Balogh, and if you’d poked me on that auspicious occasion, nothing but sunshine would have poured forth from my person.

I have traveled to marvelous far-off lands, and once, in 2016, I even traveled with a group of readers.  I rode on the beach in Ireland, and next time I have that good fortune, I am going to canter.

Probably the first dream of mine that ever came true was when my mom bought me a horse. She saved a few dollars from this grocery run, and a few from that birthday budget, and eventually had enough to secure ownership of Buck (who lived up to his name). How great was my joy that day, and how equally great when I gave my daughter her first horse, a venerable old campaigner named Pasha.

All of which is to say, that I am profoundly grateful to each of you, who read my books, chime in on my blogs, and make it possible for me to do this published author gig with joy and meaning. A dream comes true for me every day I get out of bed and sit down to write.

Are you still dreaming? Have you made some dreams come true?

PS: For those who enjoy audio books, Lord Julian’s second mystery, A Gentleman of Dubious Reputation, is now available in audio from the web store. James Langton has done another wonderful job, if I do say so my own humble self!

I’ve asked Nick Kolenda,  a digital marketing expert and all around swell guy, to look at the sales functions on my web store, because I know nuffink with a capital Nuff about e-commerce, but I am very sure that readers deserve the smoothest buying experience I can give them.

In the course of our discussion, Nick mentioned that we have two kinds of attention. One is referred to as top-down, meaning I’m on a web page or in a physical store because I have an objective in mind: Buy half a dozen good quality, dark green, washcloths. On other occasions, I might wander around with what’s called bottom-up attention: Drop by the Home Store and see what catches my eye. Might walk out empty handed, of course, but we all know how probable that outcome is in a well designed store.

This distinction, between top-down and bottom-up attention struck me as having a lot of relevance. Fr’instance, there I was in the saddle, riding Arko the Magnificent. The objective was a maneuver called a leg yield, in which the horse moves both forward and sideways. The result is a little like a grapevine, with the equine facing forward, but moving diagonally.

I was not getting through to Arko, and the harder I tried to rider-splain at him, the more he just put his head up and charged forward. I got so fixed on the objective–get the horse to do the movement–that anything else, like the impact of my shouty riding on our relationship, the cat scampering along the mounting ramp, the horse’s increasing frustration with me–could not penetrate.

I focus top-down a lot. What’s on the to-do list? What’s the critical path for getting it done? What’s the easiest step I can take in the direction of the objective?

But top-down attention is problematic in many situations, such as my ride on Arko. A more bottom-up approach–How’s the horse doing? What feedback am I getting from the instructor? Is it time to take a break or change the subject?–might have resulted in greater progress toward the objective, and in Arko not dreading my next ride, regardless of what we work on.

Relationships are probably better for liberal doses of bottom-up thinking. The early stages of vacation planning, putting together a menu, creativity in general… all benefit from strong bottom-up focus. Lord Julian, by contrast, needs both top-down and bottom-up attention to solve his mysteries.

The part of writing a novel that I struggle with the most is plotting. What is the real, substantial, interesting thing keeping the protagonists apart? What choices has this character blown in the past? What would engulf them in despair? What’s the compelling evidence they are pre-programmed to ignore or misconstrue? These are all bottom-up questions that require a broad, open-minded approach on a schedule of my imagination’s choosing.

Once I know where the story is going, I can write the livin’ peedywaddles out of it, but all that peering under rocks and watching clouds… it’s hard for me. Other writers love the sifting and what-if-ing, and for them, getting the words on the page takes unrelenting discipline.

I suspect a lucky few of us can move between top-down and bottom-up focus with instinctive ease, but for me, top-down, especially in new situations, is the default mode, and that is sometimes a spectacularly wrong approach (just ask Arko). Do you have a default mode when it comes to how you focus your attention? Does your default ever get you in trouble?

I’ll send a signed copy of A Gentleman in Search of a Wife to one commenter, not limited to the US, because my lovely readers are from all over the map!