DUNHAVEN PLACE

The Dos and Don'ts of Charitable Giving

2011-12-05T07:41:00.001-08:00

(I am interspersing this post with photos of my little home decor store bursting with idols of worldliness and materialism--oh, the irony of it all!)

I don’t wish to sound ungrateful because I’m not. Truly, I’m not! We are so grateful for the times we have been thought of at the holidays and even more grateful in those years that we are able to be the givers instead of the receivers. It’s so much fun to do something for a family in need that it gives truth to the phrase “’tis better to give than to receive.” So, yes, I am grateful.

However, over the years, as both a giver and receiver of holiday charitable giving (plus the “mother” to a World Vision child in Africa who never wore shoes in any of the pictures sent to us causing us to believe, in our incredible naiviete, that it was a style choice until one year we bought her a goat and there was money left over for her to spend on whatever her heart desired and KA-BOOM, in the next photo this child is wearing shoes and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen) I have some experience in this “arena”, if I may refer to it (holiday charitable giving) as such without sounding condescending. (Because the arena of holiday charitable giving is rampant with condescension). (‘Tis true!)

So here are the dos and don’ts as I see them. Please read them in a “loving” voice since my opinions on this matter in no way invalidate my gratitude. Also, remember that I have been the culprit almost as often as the victim (if I may refer to it as such) in these scenarios.

The Dos: Give. Give often and much. You will never be sorry.

The Don'ts (by category):

Anonymous Giving:

Don't choose to give used items with names written in it such as a book or a jacket. This is not the way a child should learn the truth about Santa. Also, it kind of spoils the whole anonymous thing. Yet . . . this happens with alarming frequency.

Don’t assume that an article of clothing with a small stain or a ripped hem or a hole will be welcomed by even the poorest person on the planet. If you are thinking “They’re so poor, they’ll be happy to get anything,”--a line of thinking that is especially easy to fall into when you don’t know the receiver or the receiver doesn’t know it’s you--then you have another think coming. (Just saying.) (I’ll admit I used to be in that boat. Now I’m in another. And then there’s the child in Africa to whom we send money each month so she can have decent clothes to wear, including spanking new blue and yellow shoes, an inalienable right of all people, in my humble opinion.)

Lastly, should the recipients be someone you know, don’t subconciously (or conciously) expect the recipients to be grateful to you or for your charititable act or for it to change your relationship or to invalidate any wrongs you have done said recipients because, you know . . . they don’t know!

Festive Giving:

Don’t wear a cashmere sweater set adorned with sparkly rhinestones to deliver gifts to the less fortunate thinking that it’s fun and festive. (And don’t refer to the less fortunate as “less fortunate”. It’s condescending even if it’s only the less fortunate who think so.)

Don’t focus on one member of the family (perhaps the harried mother or the disabled child) whilst shafting the spouse or the other children. It is wonderful (and by that I mean. Truly. Wonderful.) when someone who is having a difficult time in life is acknowledged in any way, however, Christmas is not the time to play favorites. The reactions of the other children (or even the spouse) can be so bad (and by that I mean. Truly. Bad.) that you wish no one had thought of your family at all. (Truly.) To be fair to the other children, they have had it up to here with special attention given to the one with special needs and they don’t need to be reminded—at Christmas, no less—that they just aren’t as special as their special sibling.

Don’t buy obvious clearance table items (defined by just whatever as long as it’s cheap with multiple price stickers still attached, or worse, just the price sticker goop) for one person whilst giving thoughtful and pointed gifts to the rest of the family. (Sooooooo passive aggressive.) (Actually, this applies to any gift giving scenario, rich or poor, bond or free, black or white . . .)

Gift card giving:

This is a great idea. I mean, really and truly. However. Be sure this is a store where the family shops. A $25 gift card to Nordstrom’s is a white elephant and by that I mean, you can’t buy anything at Nordstrom’s for $25 and the poverty-stricken recipient will need to spend money to get any use from it. (Not good.)

If these gift cards are to provide gifts Christmas morning for the kiddies, don’t leave them on the doorstep after they have gone to bed on Christmas Eve forcing an already beleagured parent out into the cold night to provide wrapped gifts in the quickly dawning A.M. Unless, of course, the gift cards are the gifts for them to open Christmas morning, in which case they all need to be for the same dollar amount. Again, Christmas is not a time to play favorites. (Still, it’s great fun for the doorbell to ring on Christmas Eve, so fun, in fact, that you could leave coal and no one would be terribly devastated except for the paranoid child of the family who just knows Santa has no gifts for him/her and will wake up Christmas morning to a stocking full of the black glittery stuff.) (Paranoia—the gift that keeps on giving.)

Also, make sure you supply the little piece of paper that says it has been properly loaded so that the people you are trying to help don’t get to the cash register with lotsa stuff only to be told that the card doesn't work with no way to prove that they didn’t lift it off the rack whilst waiting in line. (Merry Christmas!)

The White Elephant:

In India white elephants are revered and are to be treated like royalty and fed like a king. This is not something a poor person (that’s condescending, isn’t it? Let’s say “financially challenged person”) can afford to do. Behold, the white elephant gift.(Btw, this is one of those things that falls into the category of my having been the culprit as well as the victim so I’m not judging.) When bringing a bag or box or sleigh full of whatever to the needy person or family, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT be tempted to dig through your cupboards and drawers for any old thing just to make it look more abundant or to enjoy your newly clean pantry or to make yourself feel like a good person or for any other reason whatsoever. Those cookies that were so gaggy that you only ate a few and left the rest to get stale? Nobody will appreciate those. That laundry detergent that was too strong smelling for you? It will probably be too strong smelling for them, as well. That dog food that gave your dog diarrhea? It will most likely (so likely in fact that I would be willing to bet copious amounts of money on it) give their dog diarrhea, as well, and then they will have to spend money to take the horribly sick dog to the vet and pay someone to clean their hideously besmirched carpet. Or perhaps they will be forced to live with the besmirched carpet (which is easier to do when it is already heavily stained with paint from your painted furniture business). (Just saying.)

The Dos (again): Give. Give often and much. You won't be sorry. Giving is better than receiving, a truth I am glad to know.

Whatever Happened to Halloween?

2011-11-06T18:35:00.000-08:00

It was a week before The Big Night and I was perusing the internet when I ran across the video of a house lit up for the holidays, a very slick and well-done light show coordinated with music, singing faces, the works. Only it wasn’t for Christmas—it was for Halloween.

It got me to thinking. A thousand years ago (a few decades prior to my birth) Christmas was celebrated by people dressing up in costume, going from door to door enacting plays and begging for goodies. Over time, traditions changed and Christmas became a more private holiday that centered around home and family celebrated via extravagant meals, the exchanging of gifts and in more recent decades, houses lit up with multiple lights, including some very slick and well-done lights shows coordinated with music, etc.

So, as The Spouse and I headed out for our morning walk, I said to him: Halloween is becoming the new Christmas. A few days later I heard a radio show DJ state some statistics as to how much money people in America spend per person per Halloween each year and how it is almost as much as what we spend for Christmas. “Halloween is becoming the new Christmas,” he said. “Ha!” I said, “I said it first!” (I enjoy being right.)

Moi, going for the haunted equestrian look but instead capturing the spitting image of the thing that scared me most as a child--the kid catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who was, incidentally, a very ugly man.

It’s all very fun and festive (and expensive) and though I have always loved Halloween and fully participated in it to the hilt, believe me you, I miss the homespun classic Halloweens of my youth. Not that change isn’t good—it clearly is. For example, my father knew Halloween as Clothes Cutting Night because he and his friends would spend the evening cutting in two the clotheslines and knocking over the outhouses of their neighbors (the clothes line thing I sort of get but the outhouse thing seems fraught with too much collateral damage) (and I have just really dated myself, haven’t I?).

In the movie Meet Me In St. Louis, the first part of the film depicts a Halloween party set in the Edwardian period (right after the Victorian era and before the roaring 20’s) where-in Halloween included dressing up like hobos (the Edwardian term for homeless men) and vandalizing the neighbors by taking whatever wasn’t nailed down out of their yards and off of their porches and hurling it into a huge bonfire in the middle of the road.

Dressing up in costume and trick or treating has got to be a huge improvement (though trucks loaded down with egg-hurling hooligans zipping past knots of trick or treaters was a Halloween staple of my youth and not a very fun one).

However, this same movie depicts scenes featuring much of what I have always loved about Halloween: carving pumpkins, spooky décor made by children at school proudly displayed in the windows, bobbing for apples, digging around in your parents’ closet for costumes, filching your sister’s make-up so as to masquerade as a pretty but tawdry witch, and lots of ghosts, goblins, scarecrows and black cats.

Nowadays women, from teeny-boppers to grandmothers, think of Halloween as an opportunity to unleash their inner Lady of the Night decked out in costumes (well, there isn’t much decking with costumes the size of a dinner napkin) like Naughty Nurse, Over-sexed Vampiress, Super Buxom Medieval Woman and Plunging Neckline Whomever. Black cats do make an appearance but the cat costumes I saw this year seemed to have been partially shredded at the factory.

Where, I ask are the witches? Where are the ghosts? Where are the goblins? the Draculas? the caramel apples? the broomsticks?

Not that this is about ethics and morals--not really. This is about what has happened to my classic homespun childhood Halloween. Case in point: my 16 year old daughter . . .

at least she's completely covered, something for which I am grateful

. . . went out trick or treating with her friends (in my youth my mother always had something to say about any older boys—it was only boys who dared--who knocked on the door after 8 PM asking for candy) while my 10 year old eschewed the entire process of dressing up and trick or treating (he did wear a sign on his sweatshirt that read “pedestrian” to a party a few nights prior) . . .

. . . which meant that my 21 year old Big Guy who adores Halloween and starts talking non-stop about his costume come September 1st . . .

Le Big Guy as Link from Legend of Zelda, the adult version, he hastens to add . . .

. . . could hardly say that he wanted to go trick or treating. Instead, I drove the two of them around the neighborhood (that is to say the expensive neighborhood adjacent to us and by adjacent I mean down the road and up the hill) to look at the highly decorated houses, a cherished Christmas tradtion from my youth, I might add.

We saw homes decorated like something out of a horror flick, the one whose name I can’t remember where the entire town is swathed in cobwebs made by gargantuan spiders starring Captain Kirk. We saw a home that looked as if the set of Pirates of the Caribbean (minus one very much missed Captain Sparrow) had taken a break on their front lawn, and another that was decorated with scenes from The Nightmare Before Christmas, all very fun and well done but just so . . . slick. Several homes had cleaned-out garages (a heck of a lot of work for a holiday that is not celebrating something truly important) and turned it into a scary room in an insane asylum complete with sharp and evil implements of torture. Everywhere we looked there were funkins, those pumpkins that are made of foam and come already carved, and there were tons and tons of those mechanical creatures, most of them either zombies or skeletons or Zombie Skeletons (I love me my zombies as much as the next girl but too much of a gory, gross, icky thing gets old.) I don’t think we saw a single Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, Wolfman or plain old ghost anywhere. (We did see one house on a street called Regency where the owner’s had decorated their porch with skeleton hobo types lounging ominously on rockers and holding a sign that said “Occupy Regency”. Gotta love that.)

Then I saw it—a remnant of my childhood Halloweens. As the street we were on dead ended, a vision rose up into my headlights that made my heart glad; on the porch directly ahead of me was a pair of witches complete with pointy hats, black dresses and curly shoes. They were seated at a little table across from one another cackling like hens, exactly as witches are wont to do. I felt suffused with a happy, Grinch-like glow, almost as if I had just spotted the real Santa.

Tune in next time for: whatever happened to Christmas?

(Change of subject, here—or perhaps this could fall into the Halloween Horror category, depending on how you feel about it—for those of you who have wanted to read Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind and Miss Delacourt Has Her Day but hasn’t gotten around to it what with raising children and other paltry things or who choose to spend the price of one of my books on putting food on the table or making the mortgage, there is a give away of the set (two, count ‘em, two beautiful hardback books all about Miss D and her rocky road to true love) hosted by Inspired Kathy of I’m A Reader Not a Writer. If you don’t want them for yourselves, let me point out that they make a lovely, and to the winner, a free Christmas gift for the lover of all things regency and clean romance. If you have already read my books and even purchased them and even actually said nice things about them, I love and adore you and I can’t say enough good things about you and there is nothing I can do for you that would be too much and can I offer you a mechanical zombie whose insides are being eat out by a mechanical rat?)

Real Live Ghost in Cemetary Photo

2011-10-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

I took this photo today of our make-shift cemetary in the front yard. Could real ghosts have come to visit? You decide--ghost or light reflections. Comment with your opinion--Tuesday I will do a drawing and send the winner something cool (like chocolates or something I haven't thought of yet). Tell your friends. (Some might think this is an attempt to get mucho hits on my oft-neglected blog. So what if it is? bwahaahaaa!!!) (Actually, no, I was totally surprised to see "ghosts" in my photo--I thought it would be fun to see what people think. Honest.) (And you can give your opinions on that--explanation one or explanation two--in the comment box, too.) Happy Halloween!!!!!

Cute Coastal California Cottages

2011-10-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

We are experiencing some technical difficulties (all sorts of difficulties, actually) here at Dunhaven Place, The Blog, so my planned post, oh-so-cleverly titled "Cute Coastal California Cottages" will have to wait for a few more days. That is, if anyone is still tuned into this station manned by "the one who no longer blogs", and whom cries bitter tears over it, I might add. Yet, here I am, expecting you to read mine. The ingratitude of it all! However, in my defense I must say that I am working on the problem and when I put my mind to something, I generally succeed. The timeliness of my success is unknown but it is out there. . . somewhere. (In other words, I miss you all and feel like a jerk for not reading your blogs and hope to change that at some point.) The End.

A Gorgeous Summer Day By The Bay

2011-09-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

It was Mark Twain (or Oscar Wilde or Jack London depending on who you ask) who said "The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco", my point being that you take your chances when heading out to San Fran in June, July or August. Downtown, the buildings are so tall that the sun never reaches the pavement. I believe it was me who said, "The most wool I have ever seen in one place is SF in July". Yes--yes, I do believe it was I. So, therefore and heretofore, we were thrilled and exceedingly lucky one day in August when we ventured out and spent a glorious day by the bay.

Our first stop was Coit Tower to show the kiddios where their father popped the question. This was on a cold and stormy Valentine's eve after we had spent hours driving around the city so that The Spouse could find the perfect place to propose. The wet grass under a tree on the back lawn of the Tower was pretty perfect since the rain had stopped, the stars were like bits of crystal in the sky with a view of the lighted Bay Bridge in one direction and the Golden Gate in the other. (We found the tree in spite of some remodeling in the last 25 years but the photos the Middle Child took of us there are pretty much unpublishable. Our posterity can chuckle over them in future. And in private.) (Not because they are R rated, silly! Just terribly unflattering. Ugh!)

The view from there was fantastic, though, as long as the camera wasn't pointed at moi. Crystal clear sky, crystal clear water, just a FABulous day. I wish I knew what that long white building in the background is but in spite of an hours long search online of the historic sites in the city, I couldn't be sure. I think the dome showing just above it is the civic center.

On our drive back down Telegraph Hill we spotted this gorgeous church. Research reveals it to be the Saints Peter and Paul Church. It looks like something out of a fairy tale--or a castle spun out of sugar. It was shortly after this that I saw a couple with backpacks along the side of the road. I know the guy is a celebrity of some kind, a non-working child actor, but I can't think of his name or anything he's been in. He smiled and waved as if we were ready to pull out our cameras but we were concentrating on getting down the steep hill in one piece. (Having said that, I wish I had taken his picture b/c it is BUGGING me not knowing his name.) (I once saw Clint Eastwood drive by in the back of a limo when he was Mayor of Carmel--which is where I was at the time--but he went by too fast for a photo.) (Man, I love where I live!) We then headed to Ocean Beach which, 9 times out of 10, is foggy and overcast and 40 degrees.

Some of the sites we saw along the way . . .Love the detail on this house!

And this one. . . .I can't help but wonder how my life would be different if I lived in such a house. (Reason says it won't be any better but my heart says different. I mean, just look at all that gorgeous trim!)

This is called the McCormick House. That's all I know. Unless I got it wrong. It looks like a church but I couldn't find it on the historic register. It looks like the photos of McCormick House. Please correct me, someone, if I am wrong.

Oh, and here we have a pirate permanently swinging from the Levi's store. Perhaps the manager sees a similarity between pirate garb and the ratty jeans of today. I can't think why we don't have one at our mall but I suppose my sweet little valley attracts a less colorful crowd.

Quite literally, I might add. (This is one of those photos you really need to click on and see closer up. In fact, most of these pics look much more stunning in larger versions.)

Then we hit the beach. It was a tad overcast at first but it cleared up nicely. There is nothing, no nothing, like a day at the beach. (As long as it's not freezing.)

The kids frolicked in the water and I took some stunning photos because you can't help but get stunning photos on a day like this one.

Tip: it helps to dress your subjects in blue when posing against sea and sky.

Tip 2: It helps when you have the kind of hair that, though straight as a pin the rest of the time, curls up fetchingly around your face when by the sea.

Next came the surprising delight of the whole trip--Golden Gate Park. I had been there a number of times as a child but hadn't--for some unexplicable reason--been back since. When heading towards Ocean Beach, we drive along a street parallel to the park so this time I said, "Gol-darn it! Why don't we drive through the park this time?!?" What a glorious, glorious place! I can't believe I have lived an hour away from it most of my life and haven't been in so long. What's more, I couldn't believe my eyes when I laid them on this edifice.

It is glorious to behold (this is not a postcard--I took this picture--that's the kind of enchanted day it was!) and is modeled after the conservatory in Kew Gardens, London (which, incidentally, happens to be the site of some of the action in my next book . . .). I believe this particular conservatory was built in the late 1800's. Be still my beating heart. For my birthday, my hunny is going to take me there since I only got as close to it as seen due to utterly disinterested kids in the car who will one day say "I came here as a kid! I can't believe I haven't been back!". Believe me when I say that there are many more truly awe-inspiring things to see in Golden Gate Park but I think I shall make that a subject of a different post, especially since I just accidentally deleted the pics I had of it that should have been below and since I don't know how to insert photos but only put them in a post, in backwards order, prior to any writing, I can't do anything about it at this point except start over. I think you know which option I chose.

Since it had been a while since I had been to Sausalito, the Middle Child and I persuaded The Spouse to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and visit. One of our better decisions if I do say so myself. A glorious day in SF is bound to be an uber-glorious day in Sausalito. In fact, it was almost psychedelic.

(This is another one of those pics you might want to click on and view larger--spectacular!)

And this one, too, taken from a moving car. What can I say? A beautiful subject makes for a beautiful photo.

Enter downtown Sausalito. (Click on this one, too.) (Am I getting obnoxious, yet?)

Who wouldn't want to check this out?

I was glad that I did. There are few things that make my heart go pitty pat more than a display of impatiens such as this one.

The shot below made me wonder what it would be like to live where you can feast your eyes on this view every day? I'm willing to bet the crime rate is much lower here than places with no ocean view.

More cool California architecture. I can't get enough of it.

This is the kind of place where you can go and get an ice cream cone, walk past a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and take in a view of San Francisco all at the same time.

Speaking of ice cream, it's a pretty great way to end a perfect day. Wish you had been there with us . . .

Come! If you do, we'll show you a really great time!

Of Wolves and Blue Fairies

2011-08-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Stuck to the ceiling or flattened to the floor--during his growing up years (prior to accurate diagnosis and effective medication), my Big Guy was usually one or the other. In adults bipolar disorder presents as years of depression (or mania) quickly followed by a bout of mania (or depression). Not so with children. In fact, the Big Guy was a rapid cycler which meant he could experience several bouts of devastating depression followed by intense mania several times a day. Or an hour. In fact, he was very often in a “mixed state” which meant he experienced both depression and mania at the very same time. The end result was almost always tantrums, aggression, even outright violence. I remember well the day I was six months pregnant with my second child and forced to call my husband and insist he come home at lunchtime because 11 tantrums from my very large five year old was all I could handle in the course of one morning.

Denial was an effective route to survival but little by little, day by day, tantrum after tantrum, it was, in fact, devastating. For the best part of the year during which I accepted that he would never be “normal”, never be “right”--always be wounded--I walked around my house/my hours/my days/my life feeling as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. It was a death of a child with no funeral, no flowers, no notes of sorrow. No closure.

There were many times when I would sob, wondering if I would ever again see my little boy, the one I carried in my womb, the one I nurtured through his first few years made difficult by constant ear infections, lack of sleep and much worry over his failure to walk when he should, talk when he should . . .

. . .the one I knew to be smart, funny, generous and loving and to have a sense of humor in spite of all his trials. We didn’t know that in addition to his physical, developmental and learning disabilities he suffered from a mental illness and so we did not know--could not know--if there would ever be hope for his recovery.

Today he is almost 22 and though medicine has been an immense help in balancing out his mood swings and minimizing the aggression, he is rarely ever his “true” self. Deep dark depressions are rare (we don’t have to hide the steak knives anymore, thank goodness) though he does experience a bit more mania than most of us are comfortable with. These are the moments I call his “King of Siam” moods, when he barks orders at people and insists that undereducated and thoroughly reliant him is capable of everything and anything at all.

True to form, he continues to be a study in contradictions. One moment his 6' 1" 260 pound frame is folded onto the floor, a la criss-cross applesauce, while he laughs like a hyena over a dog toy that lights up when it bounces. The next he is quiet and reserved, using words like “discuss” and “issue” and “anxious” and “lonely”. Fortunately he is as distractible as a puppy and can be easily persuaded to take up the lighted bouncing ball once again because there is no solution to the issues he wishes to discuss.

And then there are the times when the stars, moon and sun all line up, when Pinocchio vanishes and my real boy sits down beside me and begins to speak with intelligence, appropriateness and with soul. It almost always happens at bedtime when I am tired and mostly undone but I stay rooted to the spot because the celestial constellations only align as such perhaps once or twice a year--and because I never know what treasure he will pull from the depths of his soul to present to me of his own free will without my having to wheedle or cajole or threaten it out of him--and because I miss him so much.

Last night it was all about church. He felt that he wasn’t getting enough out of it, that he wasn’t doing enough to serve others. Naturally, these are words we would never hear from the wooden puppet whose strings are alternately jerked by the imbalance of chemicals in his brain then set adrift by the raft of meds he takes each day; this gentle giant who requires tons of service from others on a regular basis. He explained that his assignment to ask someone to say the closing prayer at church wasn’t good enough anymore. “I need a better calling,” he said, “maybe something like a teacher or the Bishop. Yes," he said with a nod of his head, "I would really like to be the Bishop.”

Quickly, I bit back a smile at this oh-so-obvious contradiction in his nature (this from a man-child who can’t dish up his own jello or spread his own peanut butter, who will never graduate from college, or hold down a real job, or marry, or live a normal life or ever, merely, truly live) lest I conjure up some emotion that would disturb the delicate balance of his brain and cause the real boy to flee.

I must have succeeded because after a while he moved from his dissatisfaction with all things church onto the opening of the door to his anxieties and fears—

--not silly paranoias about things that don’t matter but carefully considered wolves--as he shared his true thoughts, those of the perfectly intelligent, balanced and logical man he was for the moment, the same one I knew would be gone all too soon.

“What will happen when you and dad pass away?” he asked with a delicacy I hadn’t known he possessed. I would have expected him to say “DIE” like I would have at his age (both chronological and cognitive). At the same time, I didn’t expect him to say anything of the sort since he studiously avoids thinking about these things in an effort to keep his own brain level.

“Oooh!” I thought at this fingering of my personal fears and my chin began to wobble.

“I am afraid that M (sister) and P (brother) will put me in a rest home and leave me there.” Hadn’t I worried often and often about this very same thing? My eyes began to sting with tears.

“As long as all of you are alive, I’ll be fine but if even one of you dies, I.Will.Die.Too."

For the first time in a long time (after all, one can’t grieve every minute of every day) I felt that hollow-but-filled-with-pain sensation in the pit of my stomach as I tried to hide from him the tears that were flowing freely down my face. I struggled with the choice that all parents have to make, the one that prompts you to stay quiet when you would rather speak, the voice that reminds that some things must be learned and not told, that there are times when mere words cannot convey what life will teach.

And so I said the only thing I could. “I love you.”

He sighed and got up to go to bed, but as my boy walked away from me, his legs turned to wood.

(I have never done this before but I am asking that if you find this post helpful towards understanding bipolar disorder, could you please stumble it or link to it on FB, etc? Thank you! Meanwhile, more blog posts about the Big Guy can be found in the side bar.)

Harry Potter and the Cult of the Child

2011-07-17T17:47:00.000-07:00

As the opening scenes of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two hit the screen and cries of Expecto Patronum, Lumos, and Silenco (one we knew well and used unsparingly in the home of my youth) rose in the air, I was formulating my next Facebook status--Note to self: write a series of best selling books that are made into blockbuster movies for which people wait in line decked out in ridiculous costumes in imitation of the characters I created. (Ka-ching!) Chuckling to myself, as narcissistic writers are wont to do, my amusement soon turned to discomfort and then dismay as I picked up on a disturbing theme in the movie, one that has certainly been present in all things Harry Potter (which I just now accidentally typed as Happy Rotter—a Fruedian slip, no?) from the beginning. However, it was the intensity of the final installment, laid out in glorious movie magic, that revealed it to me with force.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Harry Potter but like other books of its ilk—the Twilight series, The Hunger Games, etc.—as well as movies with similar dynamics (just about every Disney movie made in the past twenty years) it sports negative themes embedded in the positive ones. As a result, there have been rabid fans, as well as rabid detractors, from the moment Hagrid declares “You’re a wizard, Harry.” As for myself, I was never one to be concerned with the fact that Harry Potter’s world is peopled with the antithesis of Christianity, in a phrase, witches and wizards, as I’m a fantasy fan from way back. As time went on, none of my kids became the least obsessed so I dismissed the Potter progression as pretty much harmless. After all, the story is a classic battle between good and evil and what society doesn’t need a few of those? However, as I watched the final battle between those on the side of good and those on the side of evil, a disturbing series of events unfolded.

Case(s) in point: The Malfoy family who walk away from the fray at the final moment, who never totally commit to one side or the other, (the worst kind of villain, in my opinion) whose concern was not standing for a cause they believed in but only the survival of their child. Yet, they suffer no negative consequence for their perfidy. Then there's Mrs. Weasley whose actions are merely marginal for the entire battle but who springs into action when her child is threatened. Her whole world is at stake but her battle cry is “Not my daughter, you don’t!”

And what about the adults who seem incapabale of harming so much as a fly? There’s the ineffectual Professor Slughorn whose big moment is to demonstrate a glassy-eyed lack of comprehension in the face of utter destruction. At least he's still alive. The number of adults who die in the face of the same evil fury over which young Harry and his friends triumph is staggering. One of these, Professor Lupin, discounts the fact that his pointless death leaves his child parentless as he will be sure to understand the "contribution" they made once he's old enough. In my mind, the only contribution his death made was to highlight the fact that it was only "the boy" who could possibly make any contribution at all whatsoever. Even Hagrid, gigantic in size, strength and utter presence, is reduced to a man of small means and accomplishments, who fails to determine that the seemingly dead Harry he cradles in his arms is very much alive.

The Harry/Hermione/Ron triumvirate isn’t the only example of strength, talent, capacity and triumph that, quite frankly, trumps the adults amongst the occupants of Hogwarts. Neville Longbottom, the butt of jokes throughout the entire series for his lack of any redeeming value whatsoever, saves the day in his very own way, not once, but twice. Contrast that with the shot of the once-malignant janitor as he pushes his broom against a pile of dust bordering a mound of boulders. The message is clear; there is little he can do to clean up the mess that has become Hogwarts and we are left to believe that in a place full of experienced spell-casters, there are none but children (who are scurrying around, binding up the wounded, fetching drinks of water, etc.) to make things right.

The proliferation of film and story peopled by children who triumph over/in rescue of ineffectual adults has increased at an alarming rate since my oldest was born 21 years ago and even the least guilty amongst us has paid a price. Ask any long-time school teacher--there’s no doubt children have become far less respectful of their elders, more derisive of their superiors and more likely to “talk back” to adults. Even those children who are of a meek and obedient nature seem to have lost sight of their proper place. For example, as we walked out of the final Harry Potter movie, I asked my nine year old if he was going to have bad dreams that night. Humiliated by the question (he’s the baby of the family, but, as I frequently forget, no longer a baby) he took a moment to compose himself and very firmly stated: “Don’t ever ask me that question again.” I was shocked by his turn of phrase and informed him that his father and I made the rules, not him. Yet, if I am honest, I must own some responsibility for his choice of words. Aren’t I the one who tends to snicker at the remarks my teenager makes, the same ones a youthful me would have been sent to my room to repent of? Aren’t I the one who ignores the tirades of my eldest when he is in one of his King of Siam moods (sure, he’s bipolar and experiences temporary chemically induced madness but his younger siblings see the lack of consequences). Aren’t I, in one way or another, as guilty as the next parent of worshipping her own children in this youth-worshipping culture in which we dwell?

Isaiah said (3:4-5): And I will give children to be their princes, and babes shall rule over them. . . . the child shall behave himself proudly against the ancient . . .”

I’m not saying that Harry Potter is ruining a generation of children so save your hate emails (unless yours is very well written and makes me laugh). What I am saying is that his story is a symptom of an already pervading attitude that just might ruin us.

Happy Birthday America!!!

2011-07-01T15:59:00.000-07:00

Remember this post from last 4th of July? I just threw out the rest of that gluten free cake (pictured above from said post) a few weeks ago. (It was in the freezer, people!) I guess it wasn't as tasty as it looked. (This year I'm going for chocolate.) But really, if you want to feast your eyes on some inexpensive and fun patriotic decor, this post isn't it (last year's is!). Pictured below are the few things I have been able to get to this year in celebration of America's birthday.

Whoopee.

If you read my last post, you probably missed the link to my new blog featuring all things Dunhaven Place, the Shabby Chic Boutique. This would be because, no matter how many times I fixed it, the powers that be would not eliminate the lines and lines and lines of blank spaces between the first paragraph and the next. As a result, it seems as if I ended my last post on a big fat whine rather than on the upbeat news of my pretty store blog. BlogHer picked it up for advertising in other blogs before I had a chance to realize the problem and delete the whole darn thing. Kind of embarrassing but let me just say this--people are total voyuers. I had more hits on that post (titled: I.Could.Just.Cry.) than pretty much any other in my years of blogging. Nobody really stayed around to get whined on but it was still a success of sorts. (Sort of.) (I guess).

Going back to 4th of July decor---my post last year was all about finding inventive and inexpensive ways to decorate, even if it meant lowering yourself to using a facsimile of the flag of our 1776 enemies. The picture below is all about making people want to spend money on expensive decor. This is because I am nothing if not contrary.

Happy 4th of July, my friends! May it be a fun and uber safe one!

I. Could. Just. Cry.

2011-06-22T10:02:00.000-07:00

Because I have allowed too much food to go to waist (spelling intentional) and as a result my clothes have shrunk which is clearly the fault of the nasty dryer and I am so hot but have so much sweaty work to do and it feels even harder after spending two days alone overnight with my husband sans kids for the first time in 17 years celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary (more on that later) and the Middle Child, whilst we were gone, had to clean up Big Guy barf and major dog messes (it seems the dog took exception to our absence) but now that we're back, all of that kind of thing falls on my shoulders, plus the store and promoting my book and taking care of the house and the flowers and church stuff and being a good neighbor and then there are my friends who are being sadly neglected and trying to find time to see my beautiful neice and her cutie-patootie husband and her cutier-patootier little boy who are visiting from out of state and, well, it just makes me want to sit down and weep.

How is your day going?

(Click here for a peek at the store's new blog. It's awfully sweet if I do say so myself.) (And I do.)

If You Came To Tea

2011-06-14T16:31:00.001-07:00

I wish you could come to my house for a little chat. I can imagine you coming up the walk and seeing the spread of the sweet valley at the foot of the hill. In fact, if you stood in front of my house and spun in a circle, every view would be filled by a hill. For a few months of the year, they are grass green. The rest of the time they are the color of golden wheat.

At the turn of the walkway, you would spot my little cottage behind the gate. The white expanse of wall to the left is part of my home. The white expanse of wall to the right is not. It's a pretty small little cottage but it is sweeter than sweet.

As you approach, the world behind the gate comes into view.

If you come on a warm summer's night, you will be treated to an assortment of heavenly smells.

The Abraham Lincoln roses on the right . . .

the Coat of Many Colors at the door . . . .

the Queen Elizabeth's on the left right next to the Star Jasmine.

More likely than not, you would be greeted at the door by one of my boys. They love company and usually wait outside for anyone said to be on their way.

And then you will be here and I will be happy.

I will invite you to sit on my couch--it's strong and sturdy and after 18 months remains undestroyed by The Big Guy.

Not that he doesn't do his best.

The Little Guy tries, too. At any rate, should you come to my house, you would meet both of them (or meet them again if I am lucky enough to have had you in my home before).

I can promise you a fairly unique experience in meeting my children (even if it's again) because they are True Individuals and have highly developed senses of humor. It's pretty much due to this and their good looks that keep us feeding them. (We prize a good sense of humor and good looks highly in this clan.) (I promise to have my priorities more squarely in place when the grandchildren arrive.) The Middle Child will want to hang out with us which I will allowe her to do since she has proven to be skilled at "pouring out".

The Spouse will be here, too, but he's a bit camera shy so I don't have a photo to share on this virtual visit. But when you see him, you'll be surprised at how cute he is. Meanwhile, you're sure to get licked by this filthy creature below. (Could someone please give this darn dog a bath?)

By this time, we shall be glad to escape into the backyard. We could drink lemonade in th shade of the umbrella (no dogs allowed).

Or we could sit in the flower bower and eat tiny sandwhiches with the tips of our fingers.

Speaking of flowers, you should be sure to come in May when the New Dawn climbing rose is at its spectacular best.

We could compare notes on the most eye-catching, sweetest-smelling, awe-inspiring gardens (or rose bushes) we have ever seen.

Or we could just label this one the best and call it a day. (It would be the polite thing to do.) (Of course, if you've been to England or France, I'm pretty much sunk.)

Naturally, there ARE other flowers than roses. These geraniums, which started out as a single stem stuck into a broken strawberry pot (where it still dwells) did not disappoint this year.

If it gets too hot (and it probably will) we could escape the heat and the dog and kids by moving down the hall into my bedroom to sit on my cool, comfortable and very white bed.

We could discuss the advantages of painting two of the walls pink and wallpapering the other two with yellow. In the winter, the room glows in electric light yet still feels crisp and cool when I open my eyes after a luxurious summer snooze.

My closet contains a desk and is draped with curtains. It is very soft and romantic and I am quite taken with it. (Indeed I am.)

We would take a peek out into the back garden through the lace at the window and talk and sigh about how soon it must all be over . . . and chat some more.

All too soon, after some hours or days or weeks, depending on your patience, tolerance and all-around strength of character, it would be over and you would have to go. If you take your leave as the sun is setting, this is what you would see as you walk out my front door.

And then I would walk with you through the tiny courtyard and give you one last hug as you walk out into the view.

Adieu.

Sure, A Little Bit O'Heaven . . .

2011-06-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

There's a good reason so many choose to live in the San Francisco bay area: it's quite simply magic. From the Golden Gate it is a matter of hours (and often much less) to the mountains or the beach, the country or the city, the snow or the surf, the sophisticated to the primitive where buildings, so new and modern they glisten in their patch of light, stand just down the street from structures hundreds of years old.

What's more, the bay area and its surrounding satellites offer up a whole world of, well, a whole world. From San Francisco's China Town with its narrow streets and open air markets filled with jewel-toned fabrics and various fowl hanging from string wrapped round their necks, to the rolling hills of Napa/Sonoma lined with grapevines that would look perfectly at home in France or Italy, to the green-hilled valley near Santa Cruz that Scottish settlers found so like home they named the local lake Loch Ness, there is such a variety of treasure to see and enjoy.

Over the weekend, we had the soul-deep pleasure of visiting a little bit of heaven, otherwise known as Ireland-in-California, after hearing about its ambrosial delights from friends. Since I have sworn on a stack of holy bibles I would not reveal the location of this particular piece of California Gold (not really) (but only because a stack of holy bibles wasn't available) (though I'm pretty sure a curse is hanging over my head as we so-to-speak should I divulge the location) I can't tell you the name of the beach or the town. What I can tell you is that it is in the heart of earthquake country which is one reason we didn't pack up our bags and move there forthwith. Having said that, Ireland, or anything resembling it (such as England, Scotland or Wales) is the home of my soul and this little No Name beach/town/area looks like a piece of Ireland broke off and rode the ocean tides to our shores where it weighed anchor and waited, glowing in the sun, until I could learn of it and find it. (Now that I have, I hope it doesn't disappear into the mist, Brigadoon-style.)

The first half of our drive was weighed down with the rain that has been plaguing our area this spring (rain is winter-only weather around here yet we are expecting aNOther big storm complete with thunder and lightning later this week) but by the time we got to the green rolling hills and finally the beach, the sun had come out and blued the sky.

I was seduced by the way the rugged cliffs ran right into the water, the bank of clouds hovering above, mimicking the shape of its earthbound neighbor.

The Middle Child and the Little Guy lost no time in heading out into the water, leaving their parents to hike all the food, sand chairs, blankets, towels and other paraphanalia on their own. Um, wait . . . make that, leaving their father to do all of the above whilst I took pictures.

We've been to many beaches all over California and loved them all but this one is different somehow. (Because it's magic and came from Ireland, that's why!)

Once we got all settled and the kids had a chance to play tag with a few waves, the storm clouds started brewing again. "Tell it to the hand," said the Middle Child when I explained that we had to pack up and go, (except, not really--she just didn't want to have her picture taken--clearly I did it anyway).

Evidence of the storm clouds brewing. However, we did have enough time before the deluge to visit with the gentleman below.

Wanting to know who he is, we kicked the Middle Child out of the car to read the plaque--but there wasn't one. Not wanting to make a waste of a trip, she struck the following pose.

I love the way the statue seems to fade a bit into the mist, creating the almost-illusion of the Middle Child's shadow (minus one sword).

We stopped in town for a bit before heading home and the kids thought it would be fun to imitate another work of art. (They're nothing if not consistent.) The Middle Child does a good job but the Little Guy can't quite manage a genuine grimace--he's just too darn sweet, and genuinely so. (If you are young(ish) and your eyesight still good, you might be able to read the plaque. It's worth the trouble.)

The Middle Child snapped this photo through the car window whilst we were in motion (actually, it was the car that was in motion--we were fairly motionless as I recall). I defy anyone to say that this does not look exactly as if a little bit of heaven (code for Ireland) didn't drop down on the California coast.

I have been greatly smitten with photographing clouds lately, probably because we have had so darn many of them this spring. I call this one "the twins". Those with poor eyesight are probably wondering why so I give you what I call "the close up".

See that second cone shaped cloud behind that there weed? As alike as two buttons, they are! Meanwhile, the amount of green for the end of May was truly mesmerizing (and to be expected considering the buckets of rain we've had). At one point, driving through a little country town, the green suddenly parted to reveal something white and dreamy. The Spouse heard me gasp and immediately began to look for a place to turn around (he knows me well).

There, in the clearing, was a dear darling house swimming in green. Again, I would have packed my bags and moved in a trice if it weren't for that earthquake thing (and that pesky lack of funds thing and that current occupant roadblock, etc. etc.).

Still, we managed to get a few more shots before the gardeners appeared out of the surrounding jungle, chain saws in hand, causing us to scamper off in a hurry.

Still, I think I could be really happy here, just camped out on the front lawn.

Other than where you currently live with people you love, where is the home of your heart?

Lessons I've Learned Whilst Plying a Spade

2011-05-19T08:29:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have been paying attention know I am more than a little batty about flowers, especially roses. In my unhinged state, I assign them human characteristics: in my eyes an open rose is a face, the velvety soft petals are lips to caress with my own and, I sometimes murmur sweet nothings in their leafy ears. When I plant bulbs, my internal chatter insists I am burying them rather than planting them and when I cut bouquets of roses to bring into the house, the thought that always goes through my mind is “They just don’t do well in captivity”. (Since they don’t do well out in the blazing sun, either, I justify their slavery as a necessary evil.)

However, taking care of a garden, even small ones such as mine, is not all sweetness and light. As much as I adore the end result, I am not one of those gardeners who loves “puttering around the garden”. The mundane tasks of weeding, dead-heading, watering and planting aren’t things I truly enjoy. Instead, I do them because they give me a great deal of satisfaction. I have often reflected on how raising flowers is a lot like raising children but with the much to be desired quality of instant gratification (seeing as how flowers mature much more quickly than babies). Another plus: when you’re doing something wrong, flowers let you know far sooner then children, leaving you with plenty of time to fix things before long-term damage (and therapy) is unavoidable.

I have learned many other important life lessons out in the garden. For example, a little effort, hard work, time, money, etc. today pays off in big ways tomorrow--and on into the future. To illustrate this, I have included photos (to follow) I have taken over the years of my New Dawn climbing rose that was planted as a two foot starter in April of 2008 (I can’t find a picture of that—I can only assume I found it an unworthy subject for my lens) and is, today, a spectacular example of its species, if I do say so myself. Of course, this is much like raising children, as well. If we feed our infants on a daily basis, they will live long enough to be fed again and so on and so forth until, finally, you have a full-grown person (I often reflect on how kids grow like weeds but, honestly, feeding them will do that) who produce children of their own and provide you with endless progeny. Of course, there are endless examples of this very same phenomenon but it is amazing, in spite of its truthfulness, how often we can loathe putting in that initial investment.

Those who garden have learned that things are not always what they seem and sometimes one gets something one does not expect. I once pointed out to a friend, as I sat in her lovely, well-groomed backyard, that she had a rather tall weed coming up. “I know” she said (because, of course she did) “but I like to let them go once in a while. Weeds can turn out to be really pretty.” This is exactly how I feel about my Big Guy. I never expected to give birth to a brain-damaged, globally delayed, mentally/learning/physically disabled child and there were times when his wild thorniness made the term “weed” seem most appropriate. However, I watered and sunned him anyway and though he is different from my other children, he has turned out to be far more beautiful and worthwhile than early indicators predicted and is highly valued for those very differences.

I have also learned that adversity is a must. I once had a friend who rented a home that came with a garden full of roses. Because she disliked roses (despite that I still liked her) she chopped away at them every chance she got. Yet, she was always being told how gorgeous her roses were. The thing is, roses like to be chopped back on a fairly regular basis. When they are done growing for the season, they need to be cut down almost to the ground (climbers like my New Dawn being an exception) and need regular pruning and dead-heading whilst they are producing. This is to protect them from other adversities that are much more difficult for roses to overcome such as freezing, bugs, and dread diseases peculiar to roses. As human beings, we require the same. So often I have been pruned by life, circumstances and trials, sometimes rather harshly, but when I look back, I can see how these things have made me stronger and perhaps even spared me much harder trials that I might not have yet been ready to bear.

April or May 2009

One of the things I love the most about gardening is the feeling that I am partnering with God in creating living things. Of course, children are the best example of this but I have to confess, I do like the level of control over the final result I have over flowers as compared with children (I confess, I am weak). It is wonderful to know that when I do my part—plant, water, feed, etc.—that God will do the rest. He is bound to do the rest. He is who He is and will always be exactly that. There are many things He has asked us to do in this life and when we do them He WILL absolutely, positively do His part. It’s like the sun coming up in the morning and setting at night—He is unalterable and He does not lie. In short, we can count on Him to keep His promises. Always.

Final lesson (for today): When you plant roses, what you get is roses. This might seem obvious and simple but “things” can be deceiving. Long ago I bought a gorgeous and delicate pansy in an unusual mauve color. It was the closest to pink any pansy had ever come and I adored it. I planted it and when it went to seed, I harvested them for future “nearly pink” pansies the following season. Imagine my horror when the new crop of pansies came up in the usual hues of blue and purple (okay, maybe “horror” is too strong a word but it was genuinely upsetting). I couldn’t imagine what had happened. And then I realized: the pansy was a hybrid, a combination of purple and blue pansies. When the seeds were planted, what was produced was a product of their true nature.

How does this apply to my life as a human? It has everything to do with the answers to the following questions. Who planted me and what am I meant to become? What is faith and why is it essential for us to thrive? This beautiful post HERE touches on the answers. However, for those of you who are still here, I can say with no qualms or hesitation that we were planted by God the Father and we are meant to be like Him. We are His children made in His likeness. Within the seed that produced each one of us, that tiny package of perfect potential, is everything we need to become like Him. We are not meant to be failures, powerless, weak, discouraged, worthless or in any way evil. Those are not the seeds God planted so, unless we actively choose to be other than what we are meant to be, how can we be anything but what He planted? God the Father is a creator and no matter how weak and spindly and far to grow we are, so are we.

April or May 2010

For those of you who have read Jana’s post (see link above) you have read how it requires faith to create. This is where the choosing comes in. Whether it is a painting or a book or a garden or a home or a child or a meal, it doesn’t matter—it requires faith to some degree or another. When we exercise that faith to create anything from a pot-holder to a wedding dress, we are on the path to fulfilling the measure of our creation.

When we are without faith and fill our thoughts with stories about how we are not good enough, we are not growing, we are not thriving, we are not becoming. When we feel that way, we know it is time to weed the garden, spend some time basking in the sun and fill ourselves with living waters.

I have learned a lot about creation and creating from growing flowers. I have learned more about it from people who are going about life creating rather than destroying. As it pertains to those of you I know through blogging, most of these people are women--wonderful, talented, faithful women--who are creating all sorts of worthy and worthwhile things.

There is Lisa who is raising her family in a country that is not her home and who does it willingly and so very cheerfully. In this foreign land, she is a minority in more ways than one and she stands as a beacon of light in the darkness for others who are like her and who want to be like her.

There is Jami who grows roses and children, who, from her kitchen table, fills their minds with learning and goodness, wisdom and culture, while loving and sincerely serving all in need who cross her path in spite of her own significant needs and trials.

There is Kazzy who has created a happy home for her family and who also creates a happy learning experience for classroom after classroom of special education elementary students. (I have often wished she could have been the Big Guy’s teacher for just one year—I know it would have made a life-long difference for him.)

There is Heather who works so hard at being “present” for her children and who is creating a new and joyful life as a recovering alcoholic while experiencing the coming of a baby in new and wonderful ways she had not experienced during previous pregnancies.

There is Laura, a woman so full of love it oozes from her pores and who is joyfully raising the only two children her body has created, both of whom suffer from disabilities that make having an average and much longed for experience as a parent quite impossible. Still, she loves--fiercely.

There is Kim who is constantly and consciously striving to be a better person and to juggle her role as the mother of small children with her desire to be a writer of books. She has recently completed her first novel for which she won a “first chapter” contest and has thereby created something I never could—a world in which she can raise books and small children at the same time and do both well.

There is Jenny who, in spite of the many demands on her due to her daughter’s disabilities, has with great effort and diligence, created with her bare hands an opportunity for this same daughter to have the expensive treatment she needs in order to thrive and fulfill the measure of HER creation.

There is Mona who has been through all of that and is currently reveling in the fruits of her labor/creation and who writes about it with great depth here, here and here

There is Michelle and Janelle who suffer from debilitating physical ailments whose greatest joy comes from serving their children and sharing the gospel and who take every opportunity to shine their light on, quite literally, the world.

There are so many more of you, like my Dedee, and Terresa and Rebecca and Debbie and Becky, who are doing the same things across the globe and blogdania, creating beauty and goodness in their homes, their communities and every where they go, whether it is physically or via modern technology (and usually both). As you lift, inspire, support, comfort, connect with and love one another, you are a reminder to me that when we exercise faith to create that which is lovely, praiseworthy and of good report, there is no limit to what we can do. After all, when you plant a rose, what you get . . .

May 2011

. . . is roses.

(Just in: see this rockin' review of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day from flame-haired poet Terresa Wellborn HERE

and this fun interview of me at Mormon Mommy Writers HERE)

Ways I Am Distracting Myself From Being Jealous

2011-05-09T10:43:00.001-07:00

I'm glad you all went (to the LDS Storymaker's conference) and had fun and got to behold one another with your naked eyes and hug one another with your loving embraces and some of you got the recognition you deserve and some of you went on to win Whitney's Saturday night but look what *I* found! I was hunting for fabric (she said a little breathlessly as if it is anywhere near as exciting as getting to see good friends and attend a writer's conference) for a project down at the store (also called Dunhaven Place) (I would link to it but I can no longer link or hightlight or center or comment or anything of that nature and I DON'T KNOW WHY NOT) (but if I did, and you were to click on it, it would take you to www.dunhavenplace.com) and ran across this very appealing fabric at a discount store. When I looked at name of the pattern, I knew it was meant to be.

If you are bemused and confused as to why this should be significant, go to Amazon and check out the review of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (sorry, I would link to it if I could--and I would have italized the word "could" if I could---urgh, ditto) or you could go to http://www.romrevtoday.com/miss-delacourt-has-her-day---heidi-ashworth.html and check out a review of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day--and then you would know.

I am having fun with my new store but I really miss visiting all of your blogs and finding out what you are all up to instead of reading tantalizing snippets on FB and feeling like a total dope. sigh . . .

Grateful for a Flower-Filled May Day

2011-05-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

Foxgloves don't grow well in my area so every spring I buy one in a pot and set it out for a few weeks of spring-time glory.

A Queen Elizabeth rose bush giving birth to twins.

Abraham Darby glowing in the sun.

This White Iceberg bush has taken off since I cut down the potato vine that towered over it. There's a lesson in that somewhere.

The Mary Rose, a David Austin rose bush named after a ship called The Mary Rose, a favorite of King Henry the 8th.

The arch is practically groaning with promise. I can hardly wait.

In the back, the first New Dawn climbing rose has burst its seams.

An Abraham Darby bud about to bloom.

Pretty much the best color combination ever.

Cecile Brunner climbing roses basking in the light. I had cut this plant away from the arch for lack of blooming and put a new climbing rose in its place. Now it is behaving beautifully. Surely there is a lesson in that, as well.

A clutch of roses to perfume the house. (And, yes, Kristina, it does smell lovely!)

Lemon blossoms are just about the sweetest thing to ever scent a breeze.

I am grateful to live in an area where spring comes early and where I can have a few patches of brown earth to partner with God in the growing of green things. Partnering with God to grow children is even better. Now that I spend long days away from home and my Big Guy, Middle Child and Little Guy, I treasure every opportunity I have to interact with them, serve them and breathe in the fragrance of their presence in my life.

Easter Is A Time Of New Beginnings

2011-04-24T17:37:00.001-07:00

The sweet-smelling lilacs that have lain dormant for eleven months are renewed.

The roses burst into leaf and begin their riotous bloom.

Geraniums push bravely through the rain and snow to be one of the first heralds of spring.

It is no accident that Easter comes at spring-time.

(To see before and after photos of Dunhaven Place's new beginnings, go to http//:beforeandafterdiydecor.blogspot.com)

The Miss Delacourt Has Her Day Giveaway Winners

2011-04-04T12:16:00.001-07:00

As predicted, I am sitting here in my new store with nothing to do. As a result, I have copied down the names of the commentors, facebookers, twitterers, Goodreads junkies, etc., etc. on little slips of paper, put them all in an antique vase, shook it up really good and had The Spouse close his eyes and pull out a piece of paper with a name on it--times four (as each drawing for each of the four giveaways was separate). Before we get to who won the mugs, the twins, the hamper and the painting, let me tell you who won the Goodreads book giveaway (winner determined by Goodreads via procedure unknown except that it is doubtless more sophisticated than drawing a slip of paper from an antique vase)--Rebecca Irvine of Rebecca Irvine. I think it's hysterical since out of more than 1,000 entrants, there were only three people whom Iknow personally (at least, as far as I know since one can enter a Goodreads contest under a secret or anonymous user name) and of those three, only one of them already owned the book--namely Rebecca Irvine of Rebecca Irvine. Congrats Becky! As you have already read and reviewed the book (HERE) perhaps you can use it to start a fire for your next camping trip.

Did I mention that I am sitting here in my new store with nothing to do? This is a good thing for a number of reasons. 1. I don't know how to work the cash register. 2. We aren't real clear on the tax laws (some things you charge tax for, some things you don't--where does our painted furniture fit into this? We aren't sure . . .) and 3. I am getting some much needed rest. Mostly, I am enjoying making you wait to hear who won. ( Sorry). (Sort of).

Okay, here goes--the winner of the darling regency mugs by Audrey Eclectic is Kimberly of This Adventure Called Parenthood. I must say I am pleased about this since Kimberly claims in her comment that I should count her as a new fan. Since she doesn't have my blog listed in her blogroll as of yet, I can only assume I can't count on anything unless she wins the mugs. Now that she has, well, Kim, you know what to do .. . (oh, and also email me with your mailing address at write2me@heidiashworth.com).

The winner of The Twins (i.e. a signed copy of each of my two Miss Delacourt books) is Lesa of Notes About Music Notes. Congratulations Lesa! Leave your address in my inbox at write2me@heidiashworth.com and I will be happy to mail your books to you just as soon as I sell something and have the money to cover postage (just kidding) (sort of). Thanks for entering my giveaway and I hope you love and adore the books (and post Goodreads and Amazon reviews)! (The good kind!)

The winner of the picnic hamper filled with rosy dishes and faux provenance is Rebecca Irvine of Rebecca Irvine. Is that hysterical or what? However, not terribly odd when one considers the fact that she had 7 entries on this giveaway. Rebecca, do you mind if I mail your book along with the hamper? hee hee

Finally, we have come to the giveaway many of you have been waiting for--and some praying for--which, in this case, was a really good move. Read the winner's comment below to see what I mean.

"I really want Jana's painting. And I can't wait to read your books. So... *I blogged, theloneread.com *I posted reviews on Amazon (for both books, even though I haven't read them, I trust Jana completely. And I didn't lie.) *I put a link on my family's blog. *I put a link for your blog AND Jana's on FB. *I prayed. *I prayed again. When I locate my login for Goodreads, I will add it there as well. I don't tweet, but I will tell everyone I know verbally, at least until they get really annoyed and ask me to stop. Then I will leave little notes on their computers with post-its. And I'll pray."

Prayer works, people. And so does having a bazillion entries. H--, also known as Dan the Man, I hope this was a powerful testimony-building experience of prayer for you. I feel privileged to have provided the opportunity. What else can an impoverished novelist hope for? Only this: that every single one of you could have won the painting. The good news is that Jana has had the painting done up in prints as well as notecards. Go to Jana's website to figure out how to own your own version of "Miss Delacourt's Roses". Lastly, as I was combing the comments of my March posts in order to get every viable entry included in that antique vase, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for all of you lovely, loving, supportive people. As I read, I did a lot of sniffling such that The Spouse, in the next room, wondered if I was all right and did I need a tissue? How incredible you all are! How generous, kind and truly wonderful!

Hey, is that a potential customer I see coming through the door? I had best be off! Hugs!

My Refracted Brain

2011-03-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve had quite a bit on my mind lately. It’s caused a lot of mayhem. A lot of twos coming out as toos and that kind of thing. So far I have searched for one or the other of my books under the titles, Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind, Miss Delacourt Has Her Day, Miss Delacourt Has Her Mind (unlike moi) and Miss Delacourt speaks Her Day. It’s all very confusing and I can’t seem to get it straight. Meanwhile, my search engine is convinced that a book called Miss Delacourt Has Her Mind truly exists. Then there’s the numbers things. How many giveaways do I have going this month? How many people have entered? How many entries each? How many people have added MD2 on Goodreads? How many have added MD1 on Goodreads since MD2 came out? (it’s an impressive number for a two year old book). How many people have entered to win a free copy of MD2 on Goodreads (over 1,000—a free book is a free book!). How many copies of MD2 are in libraries according to the world catalog? How many copies of MD2 have sold on Amazon? How many copies of MD1 have sold? It’s quite simply, exhausting, especially since numbers were never my thing (hence, the twos and the toos). I have some serious calculating to do at the beginning of next month when the entering of the giveaways is all over. However, if you feel you need another chance to enter either the gorgeous Miss Delacourt’s Roses painting by Jana Parkin giveaway, the regency gent and lady hand painted mugs by Audrey Eclectic giveaway, the “twins”, as I call them, or, less incomprehensibly, a set of my books, signed, giveaway, OR the picnic hamper full of rose bedecked dishes Ginny and Sir A. took out on a picnic the day after their engagement giveaway, AND you have already done everything that has been previously outlined as ways to enter, you can do these: Look up Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind on Goodreads (or just click on the handy green link to the left) just below the first review, where it says that it is part of two lists. One is the Clean Romance List. The other is the New Authors to Watch For list. I have no idea who put my book on these lists but I am currently in the middle of the pack of each list with JUST ONE VOTE. I think it would be a blast to see what happened if some of you voted for it. You can get an entry for each list. Next, you can figure out how to add Miss Delacourt Has Her Day to either list—and get an entry for each. Aren’t I just full of great, demanding and self-absorbed ideas? Meanwhile, the very last book review for the month is up and running, posted by my darling friend, Eowyn of Refracted Light. I can’t remember how I found her blog but I probably made her a bit nervous when I asked her to please be part of my MD2 critique group. I barely knew her real name and I had never seen her face (in her photo on her blog, she sports one solitary eye). When a rather nervous and totally gorgeous woman with a manuscript shaped object in her hands showed up at the library party in Utah two years ago next month, I rather suspected it might be Eowyn. (It was.) I read her notes in the margin of the first half of MD2 on the plane ride home with great interest and appreciation. Better than that, I had the chance to spend some one on one time with her and some other blog friends (most of which have been on this tour) one evening and had a chance to get to know her better as a person. (She got an A, btw.) Since then, she has read the second half of MD2 and read the entire thing over again in book form. And now she has blogged about it. Read her lovely review HERE. Love you, Eowyn!!! I’ll be back sometime in early April to announce the winners of the giveaways (see sidebar for more MD2 giveaways). Can’t wait!!!!

In Which the Dragon is Thwarted for Another Day

2011-03-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

(For some reason, paragraphs refuse to appear in traditional form in this post. In spite of recreating this post three times, I just can't get the paragraphs to hold their shape. Sorry for the long black mass.) Imagine you live in a land swarming with sky-wheeling dragons. They are purple, black and blue-- and so are you. Though the land is full of many varieties of dragon (some are practically harmless while others are positively lethal) the dragon that harries you and yours is a Roof Dragon, a persistent, relentless beast from which there is no escape. It is as if its DNA is encoded with your own and no amount of fleeing, disguising, reinventing or starting over will flummox it for long. Over the years, you and your family have had your house burned down around you, your clothes charred to pieces, your skin blistered with flaming breath, while those around you look on in seeming unconcern. You realize they have their own dragons, though sometimes it seems that theirs aren’t quite so relentless, not quite so constant, not quite so cruel and that they might have, once in a while, a tiny corner of their personal respite to share. Most don’t. You understand they are afraid of the dragon, afraid of being burned--afraid to acquire their own inexorable Roof Dragon--and so they stay away. Some days, some weeks, some months, some years, are better or worse than others. When times are worse, your path becomes ever more lonely. Things become hotter, thicker with smoke, your injuries more severe with less succor available to soothe them. One day, you and your dearest ones are at such a low, you can’t even obtain water to quench your undying thirst. You lie in a clotted mass on the ground just yards from the well, your hand outstretched, while person after person bustles past, averting their eyes as they go or failing to see what is right before them. Suddenly, and with a surprising lack of horn-bearing angels to herald what’s to come, a person steps from the crowd, gently takes the cup from your outstretched hand, fills it to the brim in the nearby well, and tenderly places it to your lips. With that drink of water, so simple to obtain, yet so inaccessible to yourself, you are granted strength to get to the well and fully quench your thirst, strength to attend to your family for another day. For one more day you are given strength. For one more day you are given hope. For that one cup of water, you will live. In my life there have been a number of cup bearers, those who have braved the heat to personally minister to me in one way or another—or in many. Several of them have been on the Miss Delacourt Has Her Day book tour, one of whom is Kazzy of Kazzy’s Ponderings. Kazzy has the soul of a poet and a heart made of sterner stuff. Her blog posts are polished gems of true speaking, clear thinking and reveal, bit by bit, the purity of her heart. Once upon a time, she said something to me that made me realize I didn’t have to always be the goofy, happy bloggist I had made a habit of being and that it was okay to expose the other sides of my personality. Since then, she has served me in ways big and small. She, along with some others (you know who you are) has been a rock in the sinking sands that have been my life the past few years. If asked, I am sure she would say that what she has done or said or sacrificed was small and meaningless and so easy to accomplish. That may all be true but, for me, they were as filling, essential, and imperative as a drink of water for the beleageured dragon victim by the well. Because of people like Kazzy who lifted her eyes to see, who read what I wrote with perception and who listened to the silent whispers, I am better. I can do more. I can be more. I am grateful, not only to be feeling better than I have been but also to have felt worse than I feel now. Being in a position to be served helps me to feel privileged when it is my turn to brave the fiery dragon of another with a cup of life-giving water in my hands. Go here to read Kazzy’s blog. Go HERE to read what she has to say about MD2. See the sidebar for more posts about the Dragon that lives at my house as well as to find out how to enter the fun giveaways going on this month--time is running out!

Another Stop on the Book Tour Merry Go Round

2011-03-27T14:12:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have one of those days (or week or months) when you feel like your brain is a hard drive and through some kind of silent, insidious and totally unexpected attack, it has been wiped clean? Like, totally, squeaky clean? As in, clean as the proverbial whistle? For weeks, now, I have felt like I am constantly attempting a reboot and nothing is coming up. Thank goodness Miss Delacourt dropped by the other day or I would have been completely done for. (I have spoken to Sir Anthony and invited him to take his turn but so far he’s not returning my emails.) So, I have no clever (or not so clever) post today that ties in with the latest stop on the bloggy book tour for MD2. In fact, I am so tired, I am left with nothing but profound gratitude for Rachel Sue of Trapped Between a Scream and a Hug for reading my book and blogging about it. Though, I can add that when I think of her, I think of that song, “It’s a Jolly Holiday with Mary,” from Mary Poppins. She’s that kind of gal. Visit her blog. Stay for a while. Then visit some of her other blogs. Like the perennially perfect Miss Poppins, Rachel Sue has lots of clever and unexpected things up her sleeve. Thanks Rachel Sue! Hugs!

Artists Speak Their Minds on Miss D Having Her Day

2011-03-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

Prior to embarking on the MD2 book blog tour, I emailed a couple of authors who routinely do blog tours with fabulous giveaways and asked them 1) how could they afford it? And 2) did people donate? and 3) what are your secrets? Not surprisingly, I had no response.

Then I had an awesome idea. I emailed Jana of Divergent Pathways who, it was rumored, created a Miss D inspired painting, and asked if she would be willing to provide me a print of the heretofore unseen painting as a giveaway. Not only did Jana agree, she insisted on giving away the original painting which, as it turns out, has a whopping $530.00 value based on the prices her beautiful artwork routinely commands.

I was thrilled.

Especially when I saw it.

Wow.

Immediately I began plotting as to how I could be in on the giveaway but to no avail—there was no honest, ethical way to bring it about. I will have to simply be content that one of you will win it.

But Jana’s generosity didn’t stop there. She has reviewed Miss Delacourt Has Her Day on her blog, and as part of her review is giving away a signed-by-the-author copy of MD2 and a set of notecards with the Miss Delacourt’s Roses image. So, get yourself over there to read what Jana has to say (I must confess, I love her enthusiasm!) and get entered in her contests!

Jana is also the artist behind this book that I reviewed HERE, a post that touches on some of the other generous things Jana has done for me. You can read her very impressive bio HERE. I highly recommend it. I am so lucky to be able to call her my friend.

Luck seems to be the order of the day because I have a second review to link to, posted by another publisher of books, Rebecca Irvine. You can find her very fun Family Home Evening scripture books Here and Here. Becky was the first to suggest to me that Ginny’s and Anthony’s story could stand a sequel so I am very indebted to her. She, like Jana and all the other awesome bloggists doing reviews, are people I met through blogging and via their enthusiasm for Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind.

Until you publish a book, you can’t comprehend how much it means to have this kind of support from those who, in most instances, you have never met face to face. It’s a wonderful thing, far more wonderful than I can adequately express. Go HERE to read Becky’s review. Thanks SO much, Becky!!!

In Which Miss Delacourt Dishes on Roses and Sir Anthony

2011-03-23T13:41:00.003-07:00

When Grandaunt insisted I return to the country to check on her roses, I thought she was perhaps a bit past her prime. Not that she is precisely ancient, only that she looks terribly old and always has as far as I can tell. Anthony insists the portrait of a young woman from the past century hanging in the gallery at Crenshaw House is she but I daresay I would never have recognized her despite the painfully pointed nose (a Wembley trait I feel enormously grateful for having skipped me) as I simply can’t imagine her ever looking anything but positively vintage.

But I digress. Though I thought perhaps she was a bit mad to send me packing off to the country for such a paltry reason, I also knew I was hardly likely to cut much of a dash amongst society, especially after that incident at Lady Salisbury’s dinner party involving a man and his ratty toupee, and, I must admit, my unruly tongue. The country was as good a place to hide my shame as any. A mere fortnight later, I was a woman in love and betrothed to as fine a specimen of manliness as ever was.

And to think it all started with the roses.

I understand our courtship and engagement has been put forth in a set of volumes (based on the scribbling I did in my journal, which, by the way, has disappeared under mysterious circumstances) and details of my life are being consumed like so many ices from Gunter’s on a hot, summer day. If you have read therein, you will surmise how roses seem to absorb much of my grandaunt’s thoughts. As a result, you will perceive how most every object in her home is adorned, in some fashion, by the noble bloom. If you permit, I will proffer an example.

Of course, the hamper itself has escaped a life of any but one of plainness. It is the very one Anthony and I took out for a picnic the day after our engagement. (The quarantine was at an end and we were finally home at Dunsmere to “check on the roses”. After weeks of confinement, we relished the warmth of the sun on our faces as we ate our meal of bread, cheese, hot-house strawberries in cream, Shepherd’s Pie and a variety of sweets). It is what we found inside that we deemed so typical of the Dowager Duchess of Marcross, otherwise known as Grandaunt Regina.

Why, we could barely chew our luncheon, so consumed with mirth were we over the quantity of roses depicted on every piece of china (somehow we got a hold of the unadorned silverplate—I suppose the “good” (i.e. rose-adorned) silverplate was deemed too precious for a picnic) from the berry bowls through to the tea pot (though the one we poured from is deemed more suitable for hot chocolate). Why, when I think back on it, we hardly ate anything at all, though, as I recall, it had little to do with the roses. Lips touched with the juice of strawberries are ever so sweet! I suppose someone living in your day might say “too much information” but a woman whose entire romance is outlined in books has hardly any claim to privacy.

Well, I should be off. Now that I am wed and “enceinte” (tho, not the least fat or old, despite Lucinda, er, Lady Avery’s childish claims—will I never be rid of that woman?) there is much to do. I shall leave you in the hands of my capable scribe who will explain how you can be the owner of this splendid hamper full of rosy charm. Until next time, adieu.

There you have it, straight from Lady Anthony, nee Delacourt, herself. This week’s
giveaway, which runs through to the end of the month, is something only the rose-passionate might care for. We all know this is something the dowager duchess and I have in common, but the rest of you? We shall see. The basket itself, as well as all the items inside (except for the Ralph Lauren napkins) are vintage and a few items could be deemed “antique”. I would place them more from the late 1800’s to mid 1900’s. They have a combined value of about $150.00 so it’s no paltry gift (but no stunner like Jana’s painting which is bigger than she realized and worth even more than the original $300 quote). Shipping on this giveaway is going to be fairly large so I will have to limit this one to the United States only. The contents are: one vintage wicker picnic hamper, one hand painted chocolate pot marked “Bavaria”, a pair of demitasse cups and saucers marked “Carlsbad Austria”, a pair of hand painted berry bowls marked “Germany”, a pair of Homer Laughlin Virginia Rose (the flat rose pattern) bread and butter plates as well as a pair of dinner plates, two Ralph Lauren (brand new!) cloth napkins, an old butter knife, a pair of tiny teaspoons for stirring your chamomile tea marked “Rogers Bros”, and a set of very fine silver plate teaspoons marked “Wallace”. Finally, a lovely printed version of Ginny’s discourse above will be printed up and included as “provenance” (tho, in fact, all of these items but the napkins came from my own personal collection).

To qualify for this drawing you must comment on this post and say that you want to be entered. (My brain is NOT functioning so you should be obvious about it. Saying “what a lovely painting” is not obvious enough for me. Apparently.) You must give me a way to contact you. If your name is not hyperlinked to anything with an email address or even a blog, you can’t be included in the drawing. So sorry.

You can blog about this giveaway and/or FB it. If you have NOT already posted an Amazon or Goodreads review for either book (Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind or Miss Delacourt Has Her Day by Heidi Ashworth) or requested either at your library, then you could do any or all or any combination there-of for one entry each. (This is different from before when you were automatically given entries for these things if you had already done them for a previous giveaway). Come back here and tell me what you did so I can be sure to count everything.

Finally, Christina of Books Are Life, not surprisingly, reads a lot of books, reads a lot of regencies and reviews many books on her blog. Christina and I run in different blog circles but she massaged by inflamed author-ego a few years ago when she asked me to please send her MD1 to read and review on her blog. When MD2 came up, I immediately thought of Christina and so it was I, this time, who asked her to do the review. This one had me smiling from ear to ear. You can read her short but sweet review HERE.

Thanks for being here. You know. This far in the post. In the book tour. In my life.

A New Perspective Is Always a Good Thing

2011-03-20T17:19:00.000-07:00

Today I am off to buy a bit of this and a touch of that for the store. It opens two weeks from today and I am running like a chicken with its head cut off--only, not as attractive. Compelling? Yes--but attractive? Let's just say I don't look good in paint. The face crimson with exertion from painting the walls of said store doesn't look too good on me, either. The Spouse is off this morning to finish the rest of it while I get to shop. Can I just say Hallelujah? (Bless you, Spouse!)

Before I go, I would like to do a little review on the giveaways going on this month. I feel like people aren't taking full advantage and that makes me sad. All you have to do to be entered in any of these giveaways (which means "free", people, free!) is to comment on the appropriate post. The reason for insisting you go and comment somewhere other than here is to help me keep track and by so doing, avoid the spectacular melt-down that is already brewing. If I could only look like Merle Oberon's Catherine whilst I did so, it could almost be worth it. (Alas, aging dames with stunning daughters aren't cut very much slack in this world. If one in such a position should have a spectacular meltdown, one should do it in utter privacy. Better yet, skip it all together.)

So, take pity on me (as well as any and all potential witnesses) and make sure that, if you desire this painting with every fiber of your being (as do I), please go HERE and make a comment. Of course, additional entries can be earned by following the instructions there-in. None of them are hard, just a tad inconvenient, but I would say this painting is worth it. Jana, the artist, has agreed to sell some of her work at Dunhaven Place, TRE. I am thrilled!!!

The same goes for this set of adorable mugs. Heather of Audrey Eclectic is doing up some custom dishes for the store and I can't wait to see them. I'll be sure to share when they're ready for their photo shoot. (Go HERE to bid on a beautiful painting she did to aid the victims of the earthquake and Tsunami in Japan.) Meanwhile, go HERE to enter this contest--like the others, it runs until the last day of March.

These are the twins. They don't look a lot alike. Perhaps I should have referred to them as "soul mates". No matter. They are yours for the price of a comment and the luck of the draw. How hard can this be? If you already have the first one, you can give it away. If you feel hesitant as to whether or not these books are for you, check out the reviews in my side bar. They make excellent reading in and of themselves so you won't be sorry. If, after that, you decide you want to give these a whirl, go HERE. (See my sidebar for three chances to win a copy of the singleton, Miss Delacourt Has Her Day.)

Which brings me to this week's giveaway. It's coming . . . later this week. What's coming up right now is a new perspective on Miss Delacourt Has Her Day as written by Janelle of Regally Blonde, a talented blogger and mother of four tow-headed girls who are darling and sweet and lots of fun. I first met Janelle when she came to my book signing for Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind but we already "knew" each other a bit through blogging. She asked me to come and visit with her book group and talk about Miss D which was a lot of fun. Since then, she has been a great support to me in many aspects of my life. I appreciate her taking the time to review MD2 for me. The perspective from which she presents her review is certainly a unique one and a very loving and thoughtful one that had me leaking quite a bit from the eyeballs. Love you, Janelle!

A fresh perspective is always a good thing. The photo above is the first one I received of Miss Delacourt's Roses from the artist. It's lovely and wonderful. Then, the other day, I received a photo of it that was a bit different (see below).

The colors are more clear and bright and the painting is turned sideways. She explained to me that it was meant to be vertical but she suddenly decided she liked it better arranged horizontally. That is one of the things I love about this painting--no matter which way you turn it, It. Is. Gorgeous. And so are each of you.

The March Madness Opposites Post

2011-03-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

Am I disappointed that the covers to my two books, one a sequel to the other, two sides to the same coin, have covers that are so at odds with each other? One says “contemporary” (unfortunate, since it’s not) while the other says “in the past”. One is dark, the other is light. One is cold in its striking beauty, the other is warm in it’s glorious golden gorgeousness. Thye really don’t go together at all except that they are both beautiful and both star Miss Delacourt and her determined beau, Sir Anthony.

Mostly, they are a great way to introduce my post about opposites. Below is a photo of a buffet we bought as a fixture for our store. (Sorry for the orbs of light—they are not evidence of departed souls but rather proof of my lack of camera savvy.) I think of “brown” furniture as masculine. Even when they have beautiful, curvy lines such as this one.

Below is a photo of the same piece after being sanded, painted and adorned with rose garland appliqués and new drawer pulls (though I’m still waiting for the knobs for the cabinet doors). (And again, sorry for the rotten picture. This thing is heavy to move and I have made a pact with my sore muscles that we’re not budging it from its current location until it goes on a truck bound for Dunhaven Place TRE.) I think of a piece like this as feminine.

And the point of this little lesson? (While you’re thinking of your answer, take a peek at a drum table I painted pink—love it!!!) (You can see a corner of it in its masculine state in the first photo of the buffet.) (Just saying .. . )

The point is that, today, we have review of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day from both the feminine and masculine perspectives, in point of fact, from the perspectives of a married couple. She is the subject of the poem “written” by Sir Anthony in MD2. He is the person who actually wrote it and was generous enough to let me use it. As I say on the acknowledgements page, Sir Anthony couldn’t have said it any better. I am grateful to James and Rebecca for all of their support. It really means a lot to me. Hugs, you guys!!!

So, be sure to read how HE and SHE view the same romance novel. I think it’s fascinating stuff and very well written fascinating stuff, at that. Plus they say very nice things that made me want to blush, laugh and cry all at the same time. And if you want a crack at winning the Miss Delacourt set of books pictured above, see the sidebar for a link to it and a few other great giveaways going on for the month of March. (It’s madness, people, madness!)

The Beautiful Chaos of Life

2011-03-16T12:52:00.000-07:00

The only clutter, litter, disaster free surface in my entire house.

Once upon a time, I didn’t comprehend the concept/phrase/quote implying that incorruption comes from corruption. It always sounded backwards to me and there was too much of the word “corruption” in it to feel like a positive statement. Then, one day, I happened to glance down at the clump of gerbera daisies growing by the walkway outside my front door and, gasp! The gorgeous deep pink petals were now sullied with a clutch of hoary seedlings with white cobwebby wisps trailing from them. It hurt my heart. I knew that dandelions did that (they do it in a much cleaner, pleasanter way) but I wasn’t expecting it from my adored gerberas. I felt the way a new mother does when someone calls her baby ugly (and, yes, I do assign my flowers, as well as my books, a kind of living, breathing humanity one would expect from only the most mentally unbalanced). (And, no, I have never had anyone tell me my baby was ugly.) (Would be a total lie, if they had, anyway) (in spite of the fact that the Big Guy’s face looked like a landslide on the one side and things were a bit askew) (but, still . . . .)

It actually made my flesh crawl to look at it. Once I got over the shock (I know, I’m weird . . .) I started to think about it. That phrase of corruption becoming incorruption came to my mind and I realized that amongst the awful corruption of that tangled mass of seeds was the possibility of rebirth for this beautiful plant in its totally incorrupt state.

Dunhaven Place. It's a thing.

Fast forward to the last couple of years, very hard ones for me, mostly due to widespread health problems in our household. Most of them mine. However, out of that corruption of pain, sickness, lack of options and utter frustration has come the incorruption of possibility, opportunity and inspiration. Just like the four inch, 20 stitch scar on my face has begun to fade and heal into a thin, cancerless line, my other afflictions are still present, but much better, while having served to teach me valuable lessons about life, living, and why it is so important to protect your skin from the sun. Ain’t life grand?

As I scurry around, moving, sanding and painting furniture, painting walls of the new store, spending every other day nursing fibromyalgia pain, all while trying to make a dozen decisions at a time whilst trying not to trip over the utter and colossal mess that is my home, I remind myself that, out of this corruption will, one day, come incorruption and there will be peace and quiet in the valley once again. Or, at the very least, I will be in my neat and tidy store where I will be surrounded by order and beauty. (One can’t have everything.)

Stuff, living where I tossed it.

Meanwhile, I have felt sad that I haven’t been able to fully appreciate and enjoy my blog tour as I would have liked because of all the chaos. Yet, each time I read a review written by one of the fantastic people who has agreed to read my book and blog about it (it’s a bigger deal than one might think—there’s pressure and responsibility and inconvenience) I am touched and happy and joyful. It helps me forget about all the things I am trying to do at all at the same time and how there is so much to do and not enough time, etc. etc.

Out of the chaos rises beauty and I feel peace.

Lara at Overstuffed (as in, overstuffed with blessings but could also be as appropriate to say overstuffed with beauty, brains and talent) has written such a review for Miss Delacourt Has Her Day (a whole .71 cents off the cover price on Amazon.com today!) and as has been the case with each reviewer, has found a unique and pertinent thing to say about the book and its characters. PLUS she is giving away a copy! I am overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of all these wonderful people for the time and effort they have put into reviewing my book. As for Lara, she is often the go-to source for book reviews. She’s a pro at it and I asked her to do it for MD2 because I respect her opinion so much. She is the mother of three beautiful girls and blogs about them and their happy, sad, fun, frustrating and timeless experiences which she punctuates with her own gorgeous and eye-catching photography. Thank you, Lara!!! As for the rest of you, thanks for being here to read this. Now go HERE and read that. Thank ya, kindly. And then, go to the sidebar to find out how to win some great giveaways including the gorgeous painting below!

In Which My Day Job Interferes With Living

2011-03-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

There is tons to do today to get ready for the grand opening of Dunhaven Place, the retail establishment--a charming little place chock full of painted and hand distressed furniture, silver plate fripperies, books, house wares, holiday décor, Yankee candles and whatever else my frivolous heart desires. There is nothing remotely like it where I live and I’m hoping that people will see it as a place to warm the cockles of their respective hearths.

As a result, I must keep this short but please take note of three things. One—the photo above is a digital photo of THE painting and when I say THE painting, I mean the one that will be printed on giclee and given away to a very lucky entrant (see sidebar for ways and means to enter). Did I mention that this is a $300 value and it painted by the one and only Jana Winters Parkin? It is inspired by Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind and is called, aptly, Miss Delacourt’s Roses. We all know roses are very important to Miss Delacourt and they play a role in Miss Delacourt Has Her Day, as well. (Dad knows why.) I think it is stunning, breathtaking, and gorge-wah (saw that term for the first time the other and I love it!) and am totally jealous that I don't have a chance to win it. This is a very generous thing that Jana is doing and I owe her Big Time. (In other words, please be properly appreciative by lusting after this painting. Thank you.)

Two—Braden Bell, author of The Road Show, has written a review of MD2 that, once again, brings up totally unique points and gives us an original spin on certain aspects we haven’t seen as of yet (except for me--I was there--one of the many benefits of being the author and creator). He has been a good friend to have in this business and I am grateful he has taken time out of his schedule as very busy husband, father and middle school drama teacher to give us his take (his manly take, I might add) on what some might see as pure drivel. Or pure cotton candy. Take your pick but I’m betting the cotton candy tastes much better.

Lastly, this week’s new giveaway (the lovely painting giveaway as well as the regency gent and lady cups are still going on until the end of the month--see sidebar) is a set of books, almost like a pair of twins, they are, but around here we simply refer to them as Miss D. For those who never had a chance to hold a copy of MD1 in her (or his—let’s be open minded, shall we?) hot little hands, this is a chance to own a signed copy of your very own, along with MD2 which very few of you, hot-handed or not, have had the chance to hold as of yet.

If you want to be in on this giveaway, you can do one or more of the following, one entry per “followed suggestion”.

You must comment here to let me know you want in on this giveaway. Be very specific, please. Any old comment just won’t do, you have to say you want in (in so many words) (yours, to be exact).

You can blog about this giveaway or either or both books (both counts as two entries)

You can FB (same as above)

You can tweet (same as above)

You can post a review on Amazon, Goodreads or Barnesandnoble.com (you must have read the book to do so but it counts for MD1 as well as MD2)

You can request either/both at your library. If you do this, please tell me the name of your library system. (I need more library sales, people!)

You can merely enter it on your Goodreads TBR list

If you have done any of these things since the beginning of March and you want to be in on this giveaway, I will automatically grant you as many entries as you have already earned for any other giveaway this month. Sound fair?

If you can think of any other way to get the word out about my book(s), let me know and we can add it to the list.

Thanks so much for all of your support—I really can’t do it without you!

In Which Dunhaven Place Gets Too Big For Its Britches

2011-03-11T10:06:00.001-08:00

It’s difficult to explain how it all happened. It’s not that I don’t know the story, it’s just that it sounds a bit on the crazy side. I mean, who opens up an actual brick and mortar store in this economy? (And names it after her blog?) One that’s chock-a-block full of pretty things that nobody really needs? I ought to have my head examined (though that’s nothing new). Meanwhile I am SOOOOOOOO TIIIIIIIIIIIIRED!!!! And brain dead. (Move along, people, there’s nothing to see, here.)

We open our doors in 3-4 weeks and I am too tired and busy to be nervous. Of course this is the reason (THIS calender year) (because we all know that I have been full of excuses for a long time, now) that I haven’t been getting around to seeing how you are all doing. This is the reason my posts as of late sound like I’m “phoning it in” (shades of James Franco). This is the reason why I haven’t been able to focus on the debut of my book to the extent I would like to. This is the reason I haven’t even started on MD3.

However, once the store opens and I am sitting behind the sales counter twiddling my thumbs 9 hours a day, I will have lots of time to catch up on what all of you are up to. Time, as well, to bring Ginny’s daughter (Luisa) and Lucinda’s son (Herbert but I call him Harry) (and not because of a certain currently infamous prince but because it's the Spouse's middle name and I have loved it (and him) since before Mr. Wales was born) to life. They’re a fun pair already, I can tell you that. They keep dancing around the edge of my brain asking that their story be told. They aren’t terribly demanding yet, it’s not in their nature, but should they be in danger of being lost, they’ll show their true metal, I have no doubt.

Soon there will be a website (Dunhaven Place.com) (no need to click, because, like my brain, there's nothing to see. Yet.) to check out with all the fun pictures of what we are up to at the store. It will involve lots of DIY projects and painted furniture and all around delicious eye candy. But first we will collect the keys to our space and start moving things in and doing inventory and all of those fun things that store owners do. I can tell you right now that I plan to feature some beautiful dishes by this artist here. She’s the one who made the adorable regency cups that are being given away on this here blog this here month. I can also tell you that there will be artwork by this gal here. She is the one giving away the beautiful painting inspired by Miss D. You can enter to win it (a $300 value!) by checking out the rules HERE.

Other giveaways include copies of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day being given away HERE, HERE, and HERE, as well as a new one that started today by the Lovely L.T. of Dreams of Quill and Ink. She wrote a very intriguing review of MD2 today that gives away just a teensy bit more of the plot than we have seen in the other reviews. The review is worth reading simply for her writing. L.T. is a lexicon lover of no small talents. I often imagine her sitting at her beloved lappy, rolling words around her tongue like a mouthful of gourmet chocolate. She absolutely loves them and they clearly love her. She is also a huge supporter of writers she enjoys reading. I would call her a “fan” but that doesn’t quite fit. She’s more like a peer-in-waiting, already busy rubbing elbows with published authors and giving them lots of love. When she officially joins the ranks, she’ll fit right in. Be sure to read some of her previous posts. She makes words sing.

The Name Game

2011-03-09T18:01:00.000-08:00

See how I titled my last post so strategically? (Scroll down and see . . .I'll wait . . .) Did I do it to get more hits on my blog? If I were smart (smart enough to think of it) I would say “You bet your sweet life!” Instead, I will say that it just sounded good and descriptive and I had no thoughts as to the extra hits I would get from the Colin Firth worshippers around the world (the Jane Austen fans were, no doubt, too busy reading books to notice).

However, this does bring up an interesting topic: Names in Blogdania. I have touched on the subject of why my blog is called Dunhaven Place in a previous post (or two) but it seems a good time to cover that bit of ground once again. For decades, er, hundreds of, er, EVER, The Brits have had this quirky habit of giving their houses actual names. Many of them have no house number at all and the postman is meant to (we would say “supposed to” here in America) know exactly where Hill House sits (on the hill, of course!) and that it is the house on the hill in Nether Wallop as opposed to the Hill House in Titlington Mount (these are real British place names, people, and they just get more and more suggestive as the list goes on--provided you get a hold of the right list). The tradition crossed the waters to America as the British settled the east coast. Louisa May Alcott’s home had a name (Orchard House) and so did so-and-so’s (I don’t have time to look it up just now, just let it suffice that someone famous other than Lou lived in a house with a name in the U.S. of A.). (Thomas Jefferson—Monticello. Thank you, brain!)

If one of my favorite authors (Louisa May Alcott) could have a house with a name here in America and another one of my favorite authors (Jane Austen) could have a house with a name in England, well, then, so could I! I liked the name Dunhaven because it was the brand of the anniversary clock two of my favorite uncles gave us as a wedding gift. And, because my husband has Irish ancestry and I am as much a fan of all things Irish as I am an anglophile, it seemed fitting. “Dun” in Celtic is “home” and “haven” is exactly that—or heaven--you choose. Even though each of our homes had a different name (The Aerie for the three level condo and Rose Cottage for one or another in my quickly fading past) Dunhaven Place is the only name that has ever stuck through the 11 structures in which we have dwelt and called home. (It is less the name of our actual house and more the name for our actual dwelling at the actual time we are dwelling in it.)

Therefore, when it came time to name my blog, it seemed only fitting to name it Dunhaven Place. Which brings me to the lovely gal who has done a review of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day on her blog this afternoon: Debbie of Cranberry Fries. I have never had cranberry fries in my life and have no idea if they even exist but they must be very popular because Debbie CranberryFries on FB has nearly 1,000 friends. And well deserved ones, too. She does a lot of book reviews so I was happy and excited when she volunteered to do a review of MD2. She has shown such a consistently positive and gratifyingly enthusiastic attitude towards Miss D since MD1 that I could hardly say no. Plus, she had already ordered (and paid for) her own copy of the book. I am not a looker of gift horses in the mouth kind of gal.

Go read the review and see if you can figure out "why Cranberry Fries:? Also, check out the giveaways going on now by seeing the info in my sidebar . . . (you won’t be sorry!)

It's a Regency Jane Austen Colin Firth Kind of World

2011-03-07T11:10:00.001-08:00

It seems that Blogdania is rife with book tours and giveaways these days. As a friend of mine recently said, people are getting “blogged down” by it all. (Isn’t she funny? You know who you are.) It really is a brave new world since my last blog book tour two years ago. Plus, I haven’t been blog-reading eight hours a day like I did last time, either. What this means to you is that your chances of winning the hand painted Regency-era-themed cups above are way better than they would be if people weren’t so blogged down. Or if I was working harder at getting my name, my blog and my book out there. (You’re welcome.) Meanwhile, I think it’s plain to see that these cups are the bees knees for any Jane Austen/Regency era/Pride and Prejudice/Colin Firth fans out there.

These were done by Heather of Audrey Eclectic, the same talented artist who painted Miss Ginny Delacourt’s portrait in my sidebar. Click on it to be taken to her site so you can order cups of your own (or a painting or all sorts of delicious things), just in case you don’t win these I’m offering here. See how the one with the handsome man says “My heart belongs to Mr. Darcy”? See how the one with the lovely lady says “Lost in the pages . . .” whilst she reads a book? Wouldn’t a mug of hot chocolate or herbal tea taste so much better in a cup like this? Especially whilst reading “Emma”? (Or, dare I suggest, Miss D one or two?)

If you want to be entered in this giveaway (of course you do!) do one of the following (or any combination there-of) and get an entry for each one. Easy peasy.

Comment on this post
Blog about it
FB about it

You will need to either email me or comment here that you did these things. Also, say that you want to be entered in the giveaway so that I don’t have to send you naggy emails asking if you were just taking pity on me with your lovely comment or if, indeed, you really want this item. (I would hate to think that anyone who wanted to be entered might not be b/c I am an airhead.) Also, you can still comment even if you don’t want to be entered. It’s not against the law or anything (the former sentence might have something to do with a paucity of comments lately--or not. I don’t go in for actual pity parties, just implied ones. : )

If you want more entries, you can do a Goodreads or Amazon review of either book (kind of unfair to ask you to do a review on a book you haven’t read, I'm thinking) or enter either or both on your Goodreads list to be read or anything else that might unwittingly expose one more person to the glare of the promotion machine. (Did you know that an author’s book advance is meant to pay for promotion? Yep, it’s the author’s job--part of his/her pay!—to talk about their book ad nauseum to anyone who is kind enough to listen.)

Speaking of which, Kim at Temporary? Insanity is the next stop on the book tour. I have to say, I really, really, really like her enthusiasm. Kim is an enthusiastic, kind and thoughtful person who writes blog posts that are beautiful in their well-worded imagery and incredibly real in their crystalline exposure of all things Kim. I think it goes without saying that I wouldn’t have asked any of these bloggists to be on my tour if I didn’t think you should be reading them, too (that’s for those of you who don’t already) and that’s certainly true for Kim. I love that I have met this beautiful girl, esp. since she lives in Canada and I am a zillion miles away in California. (Also, she’s giving away a copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day to those who comment on her post—how cool is that?)

Meanwhile, see my sidebar for the previous stops on this tour (awesome, each and every single one! I love how they each have something unique to offer in their reviews--blog tours rock!) as well as the giveaways that are going on all month—a Miss D inspired painting by the uber talented Jana Parkin, a Goodreads contest and an LDSpublisher contest, both giving away one free copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day).

Lastly, being published is fun so, go forth and write!

The REAL Reason I Became an Author

2011-03-06T13:23:00.000-08:00

I'm the one with the hand over my eyes . . . my little brother hadn't been born, yet

Psychologists say that growing up one of eight siblings, one of seven daughters and one of a set of twins are all "adversities". I, however, thought it was great fun! I adored each and every member of my family, wanted to be just like them and even hero-worshipped a few of them. However, I did have one problem: as daughter number six, born five minutes after the child who was expected to be a single until two weeks before our birth, I must have felt a bit lost in the shuffle. I don’t remember thinking that consciously but, looking back, the feeling that there was no niche left for me has dictated many of my actions throughout the years.

For example, my sisters were, variously, smart, wise and witty, funny, fashionable and pretty. There were the ones who were very popular with the boys, the ones who had lots of friends, the ones who had lots of talents, the ones who had my parents’ respect. It seemed to me the only labels available by the time I arrived were “dramatic”, “sensitive”, “vain”, “conceited” and “she who will not eat beets”. I didn’t have my own room, my own look (since my twin and I looked pretty much exactly alike) or even my own birthday. In fact, until my little brother was five years old, I didn’t even have my own name! He thought each of us was called “Heidiandholly”. Or was it “Hollyandheidi”?

When I was in the sixth grade, I remember going to our rival elementary school for a softball game between our team and theirs. The catcher was a lovely girl with lots of curves and long, dark, hair who was clearly very popular because everyone was constantly calling her name. It was “Heidi, Heidi, Heidi,” all afternoon and they weren’t referring to me. I despised her not for her beauty or popularity but because she had the one thing I had ever really been able to call my own—my name.

Meanwhile, I had wonderful, fantastic parents who were, understandably, fully consumed with the business of raising a large family. Getting any one-on-one time with them was rare and an opportunity to be cherished. When I was seven, my dad spent some time with me teaching me to play chess. I was so proud of myself for beating him a few times and feeling like I really knew how to play. It was years later before I realized he must have let me win. However, this was such a happy thing for me that I wrote a little story about a chess piece. As soon as I finished it, I brought it to my mother to read. She was out in the backyard pulling weeds but she stopped what she was doing to carefully read it and to encourage me.

From that moment on, I knew what I was going to do with the rest of my life: I was going to be a writer. I had found my niche, my definition of myself that was as much uniquely mine as my name and thenceforth I spent countless hours scribbling little stories and reading everything of interest. I studied the lives of the authors I admired and took typing classes in Jr. High as well as High School so I would be able to submit proper manuscripts when the time came. I wrote pages and pages of poetry, subscribed to writer’s magazines, entered contests and eventually wrote several full-length books. I even submitted one for publication (it was rejected—that time). As a newly married wife, I took a correspondence course in writing children’s literature and later, as a young mother, I took a class in writing romance novels and joined various writer’s groups including an online email group frequented by some of my favorite authors.

In short, I was determined.

I remember well the day I knew I must give it all up. We were living in Littleton, Colorado and the Columbine massacre had just occurred. There was a lot of speculation on the news about the boys who had committed these murders and their character—or lack thereof. Knowing little to nothing at the time of the Big Guy's physical, mental and learning disabilities but fully aware of the result they had on the people around him, I felt a lot of fear that he would one day be just like these two boys who had killed so many and cast a pall of grief over the entire town.

In fact, I had known before then that something at my house had to give—it had been so painful to have my focus constantly pulled away from my writing by the unusually high demands of my undiagnosed (therefore, un-helped) family members. Suddenly, never being published, a dream of mine for twenty plus years, seemed a small thing compared to the agony of regret I would feel if my husband or children became the lead story on the six o’clock news because I was too busy pursuing a writing career to meet their needs.

Over the course of the next ten or so years the dream would rise to the surface now and again like an unquenchable thirst. When that happened I always pushed it down and away, reminding myself that I was barely managing my much more important role of wife and mother and there was no time to give to the writing of books. One of these times was when a friend with whom I had taken a writing class years before finally found a publisher for the sweet romances we both enjoyed writing. I was so happy for her and only a little sad for me. It wasn’t until she sold her third book that she really started to pressure me into submitting a manuscript I had written over a dozen years before. I always changed the subject when she said these things but she never gave up. Then, when my youngest was out of kindergarten and in school all day, I finally felt like I had the time to deal with the demands of this particular publisher. After re-tooling the manuscript for a broader audience (i.e. someone other than die-hard Jane Austen fans who know that a beaver is not an animal but a hat, a spencer is a lady’s jacket because a jacket was something only a man would wear and that envelopes had not yet been invented) I submitted it.

Eight months later, I received the call that made me a published author. I was so incredibly sick with a rotten cold that day I could barely enjoy it but I have known much joy since then as a result of my succeeding at something I had worked at for so long.

Even better than the approval of a real live editor was the A- my father gave my book (he claims it would have been an A+ if I had developed a better relationship between the hero and his horse, if I had set the story farther out west and if there had actually been bullets in the gun for the duel but not all books can be Westerns), and my mother’s reaction. She told me that as she read it she chuckled and said to herself “She did it!”

And I had. Finally, I had done something that none of my sisters had and I, in some small way, had a chance to stand out for something good and positive that I had achieved.

I “did it” in more ways than, that, however. As much as I have craved the recognition and approval of my parents (it is often thus in large families) I have benefited far greater from the personalized, intimate attention from my Father in Heaven. Though much of the world might think being a published author is an unworthy desire (at least in the grand scheme of things), He knew exactly what it meant to me and why. When I gave it up to better honor the stewardships I was given by Him, He took my sacrifice and turned it into the sweetest gift of frosting a cake has ever known---and not just because my little book finally made it between covers but because, in spite of the billions of daughters He has . . . He knows my name.

Awesome Blog Friends Are the Secret to a Happy Life

2011-03-04T08:39:00.001-08:00

The main difference between when my first book came out and my second book came out? I have known my blog friends for two years longer and they are the best! They have been such a support to me in all my doings and love me no matter what. And I love them!

I'm off today to my new job (I'll be blogging about that later . . .) and don't have time to really do today's reviewer justice (Crash from Crash Test Dummies) but I hope she knows how grateful I am to her for her kind words about MD2 (and one). Plus, she writes very amusing blog posts so, even if you don't care a bit for books, or romance, or regency romance, or me, go read her post. It rocks.

Also, please be sure to check the sidebar for the three different giveaways going on this month--two copies of MD2 and a painting by the acclaimed Jana Parkin!

A Sequel, A Sequel, A Sequel Kind of Sequel

2011-03-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

(Props--and an extra entry in the incredible rose painting giveaway(a $300 value--pics to follow)--to those who know from which seasonally appropriate musical I stole my post title. An additional point to those who know the actual song title. Email me at write2me@heidiashworth.com)

As yesterday’s blog reviewer pointed out, sequels in romances just aren’t done. At least, not with both the same hero and heroine. Often you get the same heroine who has learned that her hero was in all actuality, a villain, and off she is on a new adventure with a new guy. In fact, when it was first suggested to me (by Becky) that I write a sequel I was pretty adamantly against it. However, it didn't take me long to warm up to the idea. Once I decided I was going to do it and came up with an idea, my editor said “We don’t do sequels”. Well, of course they don’t. They just aren’t done.

However, once I told her how I was going to do it, she said “try it” and I did. And now it’s a book. I think I made it work, too, and I have to say, I’m proud of myself for being a bit of a trail blazer.

Of course this brought up a hairy dilemma. A decision that needed to be made and rather quickly. A matter of such importance that I gave it much brain space and might have even asked for advice on FB with regards to the direction I should go. In short, what charm should I choose for my charm bracelet to represent a sequel to a first time novel?

Some of you might have read my Mormon Women: Who We Are post in which I share my charm bracelet and how I use it to preserve my personal history (among other ways—another is to write about your life, put it in a book and call it fiction. JK. Sort of). You can read about it HERE, but for the rest of you, let’s just say that I bought a charm of a rose to represent Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind. I could have chosen a book but there’s just something about roses I can’t resist.

sorry for the really crummy picture quality-I tried, more than once

When it came time to look for a charm for the sequel, I was at a bit of a loss. One good friend suggested a hot air balloon, an idea I loved for reasons obvious to none but those of us who have read the book, but I didn’t love any of the hot air balloon charms I found. I looked at wedding dress charms (for obvious reasons for anyone who has seen the cover of my book) and wedding cakes (tho there is none to speak of in the book) and even more books. Finally, I chose this (below) for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who has had the tolerance to read this far. I suppose I should have looked for one that sported two roses but I love the idea of the wedding bouquet (which was how it was advertised). In short, a perfect fit in every way.

another uber crummy photo--mea culpa

Now we come to today’s reviewer, Rachel, a lovely woman whose complexion makes me think of an English rose every time I see her face on her blog. She’s a delightful blogger who writes about her observations of her home and surrounding areas in England. I had the privilege of reviewing her new novel just a few weeks ago, Here. Click HERE for Rachel's take on Miss Delacourt Has Her Day. (Hint, that sequel thing comes up again. Plus, some observations that come from a truly British perspective. Love it! Thanks Rachel!)

Don't forget the giveaways! This week's giveaway (tho it will run all month long) is so great! An original painting of a rose, inspired by Miss D, by Jana Parkin, a $300 value! See the sidebar for the links to all the giveaway rules. You can win a copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day by entering the Goodreads giveaway or the LDSpublisher giveaway--see sidebar for details. And have a great day!

Bloggy Book Tour Kick-Off and Rosey Giveaway

2011-03-01T13:35:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to believe it was two whole years ago (could it really have been that long?) I was hard at work over the beastly mid-section (always the hardest part to write) of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day. Hard to believe that it was two whole years ago I was working hard (it's been a hard two years, hence my affinity for the word "hard") at promoting Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind. Two whole years ago that I was preparing for a trip to Utah where I had the chance to meet so many of my blog friends. It kind of boggles the mind, or, at least, my mind, easily boggled as it is.

It was two years and roughly two weeks ago that I had a Valentine’s Day book signing here in the San Francisco Bay area and I was privileged to meet a local blog friend for the first time. What a gift! She has been so kind, so supportive and the best kind of friend a gal could have ever since. (Bless you, Blogdania!) She was also the first of my blog friends to read Miss D (she boldly asked if she could please read it before it was even between hard covers, and I said yes. I barely knew her at the time but it was a great trade because now I know her well and, like I said, what a gift!) and one of my super smart readers to critique MD2 before it even got to my publisher.

I think it only fitting that she should kick off the Miss Delacourt Has Her Day book tour. She promises she has good things to say. The trouble is, I don’t know if I made all the changes to the manuscript she suggested so I could be in for a dressing down of a most public kind. (Just kidding! Or am I? . . .you'll have to go and find out.)

But, before we go there, I want to talk about this week’s giveaway. Another dear blog friend, one who held a book club/book signing event for me at her house, fabulous water-color artist, Jana Parkin, has painted a “Miss D inspired” picture of a rose (those of us who are in the know, know that Miss D is all about roses). When she told me about it, I asked if it were possible to give away a print of the original but she very generously offered to give away the actual painting itself. Wow! (Go here for examples of her work and be sure to check out her bio—again, wow!)

In order to have the chance (or many chances) to win this painting (photo of the actual art work to surface later today, this week, this month, not sure yet . . .) you must do one of the following—doing more than one increases your odds accordingly. (And, yes, this is a flagrant attempt to spread the word about my book, which, incidentally, is .24 off the cover price on Amazon.com today. I’m self-promotional that way.)

1. comment on this post
2. blog about the contest
3. include a link to this post on your FB status
4. add Miss Delacourt Has Her day to your Goodreads “to read” list
5. post a Goodreads review of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (if you’ve read it)
6. post an Amazon review for Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (if you’ve read it)
7. request that your library buy either or both Miss D books
8. Tweet about it (I don’t tweet or twitter--though I sometimes twit (to taunt, ridicule or tease)--so I’m totally going to have to take your word on this one. Remember, cheaters never prosper.)

You will need to leave me your email or blog address so I can contact you if you win. Also, you will need to let me know which of the above you have done so I can count it (most of it is verifiable so I’ll be checking). This contest starts today and runs through the end of the blog tour on March 31st. You will want to win this contest, I guarantee it! Good luck!

In the meantime, if you scroll down to the previous post or click HERE you can find the Goodreads giveaway of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day going on all month, as well. Sign up and hope for the best!

Now, on to Jami at Superfluous Miscellany who took time out of a super busy day and arm wrestled her kids for the computer to create a piece of art totally worth the read, in and of itself. Wow! (That's pretty much all I can say.)

Goodreads Giveaway of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind

2011-03-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Miss Delacourt Has Her Day

by Heidi Ashworth

Giveaway ends March 31, 2011.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Of Books, Blogs and Self-Promotion

2011-02-24T09:38:00.001-08:00

Much has changed in the publishing industry since I wrote my first book (when my 21 year old Big Guy was a Big Baby and napped several hours a day, allowing me time to create The Two Lords Danvers, a regency romance based on an all-night dream I had between bouts of comforting my sleepless child (I blame the long naps) though TTLD is not published and probably never will be) and most of it has changed in the last several years—and fast! It’s incredibly difficult to keep up with it all (and should you be thinking this is the place to do so, you would be sadly mistaken).

One reason I chose, so long ago when I was a sleep-deprived young mother, to write genre fiction was due to my observation that those who wrote genre books (specifically, my beloved regency era romances) were almost totally anonymous. They did not go on book tours, they did not have their photos published on the back covers of their books and many of them wrote under pseudonyms, a fact I gleaned when comparing the name on the front of the book to the one listed as the copyright owner inside (though I don’t think publishers make this distinction anymore). My first priority was always making a home for myself, my husband and children and I didn’t much like the idea of leaving them to go on a book tour. My husband had left me for two years, back when he was a mere boyfriend, to serve as a Mormon missionary and it was easily the roughest two years of my life. No, I didn’t relish the idea of being separated from him or my darling child who needed me so much (it would be years before I knew just how much) so I settled on writing regencies in spite of the fact that I had been a purely fantasy girl since I picked up The Hobbit in the 6th grade. (Before that I was all about mythology--Roman, Greek, Irish, it mattered not--though I have to point out the existence of a common thread running through mythology, fantasy fiction and regency romance. In simpler terms, there is one.)

Fast forward to 2008 when I was told I was to be, at long last, published! It was fun to learn about the publishing world and fascinating to see how being on this side of the wall is, in some ways, not that different from being on the unpublished side of the wall, yet, totally different, all at the same time. One thing I learned was the differences between genre fiction and mainstream, or single title, books. Single title fiction is published in hardback form, first, and stays on the shelves indefinitely (think of the Twilight books or the Da Vinci Code). True, some of these books are written by genre fiction writers. Think Anne Perry with her Victorian-era murder mysteries (these are musts, people!) or Dick Francis with his race-horse murder mysteries or even romances written by Jude Deveraux, Julie Garwood or Nora Roberts. These authors are cross-over successes. They managed to publish in the single title format due to their extreme popularity as genre fiction writers and have had books make it to the New York Times bestseller list, something that only happens to hardbacks that sell at least 5,000 copies in one week. This can never happen to your general genre fiction novel since genre fiction comes out strictly in paperback (unless your book is a rare fish out of water type of tome as published by my publisher, Avalon—but that’s another story entirely) and might not sell 5,000 in a decade. In addition, paperbacks don’t stay on the shelves indefinitely. The booksellers remove what doesn’t sell during its allotted time (anywhere from 4-6 weeks, depending on how often that specific publisher puts out new books in that line) and ships them back to the publisher or tears off the covers and throws them in the trash (quelle horreur!)

Though, at this point, it might seem that I am as aimless as a blind-folded three-year-old in front of a game of pin the tail on the donkey, I am aiming for a point here, and it is that genre fiction writers don’t go on book tours because it is the genre itself that sells the book, not the author’s name. Though it’s only natural for people to develop their favorites, genre fiction readers push through the glitz for the rear of the book store (back when they had ‘em) to the fantasy section, or the mystery, romance, science fiction, or western section, to find the latest and greatest while the single title fiction books, the ones that appeal to the mainstream book reader, is proudly displayed at the front of the store, the author’s name in big, bold letters, where you can’t miss ‘em. THOSE are the people who are sent out on book tours.

Or were. Nowadays, book publishing is so expensive and decreasingly profitable, that spending money on tours is often not feasible. Only the proven author, the one who has made big bucks on at least two books in a row, are sent out on tour by their publisher and even then, it’s iffy. (One exception would be the LDS publishing industry, though the tours are local only and don’t involve the expense of airfare or hotel accommodations with the requisite limo service and bowls of “red or green or blue-only” M&Ms. In other words, if you don’t live in Utah, you’re out of luck.) Not that it was ever easy. Rumor has it that Diana Gabaldon promoted her first book (Outlander 1991) by getting into the delivery van headed out to the book stores and chatting up her book with the driver who would then chat it up with the employees at the book store who, one only hoped, chatted it up with the book buyers. (Clearly this worked. She was in a rare spot, however, in that her publisher couldn’t narrow down a genre for the book which meant that she had no built-in genre fiction fan base, nor her then unknown name, on which to depend.)

On to my second point: the book blog tour has emerged as one of the single most effective ways to get the word out about your book for those of us who are not Diana Gabaldon, J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, Stephenie Meyer, Stiegg Larsson, Orson Scott Card or James Patterson.

When Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind came out, I was rather new to the blogging world and had only enough confidence to ask a handful of blog friends (at the time, acquaintances, really) to be on my tour (though many lovely people voluntarily blogged about Miss D in the following months as seen in my sidebar). These sweet ladies wrote very nice posts about Miss D and I linked to them in my blog posts, as one does. It all happened in one short week but it was one of the longest of my life. I adored all the nice things people were saying about Miss D and I increasingly adored the people who were saying them, but by the end of the week I felt like someone who had indulged in way too many chocolate truffles. And cake. Topped off by extra rich chocolate milk. I don’t think it was the sweetness of the words that did it, it was just that I felt so braggy and even I was tired of reading about it to the point where I was almost bored. (This is not an indictment of those who have longer tours and, for various reasons too personal to share, only applies to how I see myself.) When you think about it, there aren’t very many situations in which we ask our friends, acquaintances and total strangers to click on a link to read good things about our work, day after day after day. After bloomin’ day. True, rabid fans exist but those who attended 129 viewings of Dirty Dancing or who have read Harry Potter a dozen times do so by choice, only. No one is expecting it and that kind of devotion is certainly not actively and intimately encouraged by the creator of said pieces of “art”. Yet . . .

Which brings me to my main point (and about bloomin’ time!): I am going to have a month long book tour. (How ironic is that?) I think there are only 16 actual reviews coming up by 16 wonderful people who were asked to be on my tour and graciously accepted, or, in some cases, asked me if they could do it (clearly the smallest category), or who were begged to participate and promised wealth and riches galore if they did, something which I obviously can’t provide but I believe in Karma, (I do, I do, I dOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO), and so there you have it.

I appreciate each and every one of them more than I can say.

As a result, I will be blogging much more often, a circumstance that boggles the mind a bit when considering I rarely manage more than three posts per month these days in light of the extra full time job I have acquired (more on that later) on top of the full time job of wife, homemaker and mother of a Big Guy with Big Problems, which is on top of my full time job as a full time gimp which is fully taking up my time these days being as it is winter and wet and cold and I am about as lively and energetic as a wet noodle stuck to the bottom of the pasta pan, too worn out to even leap onto a plate for consumption, something a noodle plainly lives for, metaphorically speaking. (Tho the metaphorical part was obvious, right? Because, it if it wasn’t, I’m totally worried about you.)

(In the end, I guess this post is a big disclaimer, the claiming of which I am a big fan. At least I must be because I am always proclaiming disclaimers. In other words, sorry for all the posts from me that will be forthcoming, especially when I haven't been reading most of yours (even though I dearly want to) and sorry for asking you, again and again, to take pity on these selfless people who will be doing their best to present Miss Delacourt Has Her Day in a good light, by going and reading their posts, every other day for an entire month. I am doing it because I owe it to myself, my book and my publisher to give this book promotion thing a fair shot. I'm apologizing to you in advance for your status as innocent by-standers caught in the cross-hairs. The good news is: there will be prizes. Not many but a couple of them are pretty much to die for. Okay, 'nuff said so I shall now fall silent.)

In Which I Make a Literary Confession

2011-02-13T16:56:00.000-08:00

The only thing about Miss D Two that has gone according to plan was the writing of it. Everything since then has been odd. Somewhat unprecedented. Not per the usual. For example, (just one of the many though the only one I'll mention) when I pictured myself writing this Valentine's Day post, it was under the assumption that at least some of you would be in possession of my book.

At this point, not even I am in possession of my book. (And just for the record, neither are me or myself.) Alas and alack!

Rumors abound as to when the physical representation of my work might physically appear in a physical way (as in, not a figment of my imagination, a reality I'm beginning to consider). The vagaries of weather and online book sellers are adding to the plethora of reports, each one more contrary than the next. So, as I confess to you the sins I have harbored for these many months, I suppose you will simply have to pretend you are looking at the very thing I am discussing--to be more specific, (yes, let's shall be!) something known as the Acknowledgements Page.

Once upon a time I wrote a book that didn't find an audience. Over a decade later, after much encouragement and revisions, it did. Happy day! However, it never occured to me I would find the time or means to write another book. My good friend Shirley always hoped I would. "Oh, pshaw!" I would say. "How can I with my sick son and my sick spouse and my sick body?" My friend Becky was the first to suggest I write a sequel to Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind. "Oh, pshaw!" I said. "Sequels are simply not done in this genre. Besides, their story is over." Still, it was a thought . . . Then several others mentioned how they wanted to spend more time with Ginny and Sir Anthony and since I felt pretty much the same way, I began to consider it. Then one day my mother suggested I write another book and I did not say "Oh!" or "Pshaw!" I said, "Okay, Mother darling, anything for you."

And I did.

However, I never would have had the confidence or motivation if it weren't for so many of you.

As a result, I thought a lot about how I could demonstrate my affection for each and every single one of you and came up with the "sage" idea of putting you into the story--somehow. It was a lovely idea but I ran into a number of problems. One, there aren't a great number of new characters in this sequel of mine and very few of them are particularly nice people. In fact, some of them are darn right nasty. (Hilarous (to me) side note: I named the most evil woman in the story after a cousin of mine because it was a good juicy part and she has been so darn sweet to me, only to have her tell me how much she hated the fact that her name is most often associated with women who are darn right nasty. Without letting on that I had very nearly done the same thing (oh, dear, now she knows) I mentally switched names with someone else and, in the end, it worked out quite neatly for reasons I can't divulge at this time. All I can say is that certain persons will get a kick out of it by the end of the story, I warrant.) (Get used to the archaic talk here, people, if you plan to read Miss D One or Two or Again.) Either way, I couldn't get all of you in due to sheer lack of new characters. By the same token, I tried to use names that represented more than one person. (So, if you are wondering if you are that Rebecca, yes! You are! And so are you and you!)

Problem number two: After intense study of census records in England during the early 1800's, I discovered that nearly 50% of the population went by roughly five names per gender: the girls-Mary, Elizabeth, Jane, Sarah (and I've forgotten the other but it was not Kitty for you Austen fans out there) and the boys--John, James, Henry, Richard and Walter. As a result, I went with last names when I could--some of you have splendid, British-sounding surnames--which often means you are named for a man (it couldn't be helped) and in one case, you are named after a dead man. An exceedingly dead man. In another case, you are named after a drunk. Again, nothing personal! Just pure randomness and whimsy. Therefore, the names I did use were based on suitability for the place and time (Regency England). However, try as I might, I couldn't get a Heather or Melissa or Melinda in there to save my life. (Tho, in a moment of rare brilliance, I did manage a Kazzy.) (And this is the moment when I realize that I care way more about this than any of you--like it's some great honor or something!) (sheez!)

Problem number three: For those who didn't get named after a character, I included your name in a paragraph on the acknowledgements page, right under the paragraph of people who did get named in the book. I dedicated the book to all of you.

Guess which paragraph got dumped from said acknowledgements page?

I have to say, I feel horrible about it, just horrible! I wanted all of your names in there somehow, but it was not to be. I guess I just have to write another book . . .(anyone named Herbert out there? Cuz that's what the hero's name is going to be and I would really like to get started on the name-saking thing .. . )

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you sweethearts out there! Thanks so much for being my friend, my encouragement, my support and my inspiration. Here you all are, in the book or not, in alphabetical order (because I am really sensitive like that . . .)

Alyson, April, Arlon, Barb, Becky, (or Rebecca) Becky, Braden, Carolyn, Christina, Cindy, Courtney, Debbie, Debbie, Emily, Eowyn, Heather, Heather, Heather, Hillary, Jana, Jami, James, Janelle, Janey, Jenny, Jerry (and Karen), Jessica, Joyce, Julie, Katie, Katie, Kazzy, Kim, Kristina, Lara, Laura, Lisa, Luisa, Marivic, Melinda, Melissa, Michelle, Pam, Pat, Rachel Sue, Rebecca, Roxanne, Sabrina, Shelle, Sherrie, Shirley, Sue, Tara, Terresa, Thora, Tonya, Val and Wendy.

And those of you without blogs or websites to link to:

Mom, Dad, Barb and Reed, Brian and Ruth, Cath(erine), Christine and Scott, Debbie and Steve, James and Donna, Janice, Jen, Johnna, Johnny, Julie H., Karen H., Kim N., Kristen S., Leila, Lisa C., (another!) Lisa C., Pat N., Ruth C., Tracy M., Scott, Sheri H., and Suzanne A.

Love you all!!! There wouldn't be a Miss D Two without you!!!

(and if I forgot you--blame the old gray brain cells)

My Thoughts on Rebellion: Chronicles of Charanthe

2011-01-29T21:08:00.000-08:00

I have a lovely blogging friend named Rachel. I enjoy looking at the gorgeous photos she takes of her surroundings in Jolly Ol' (England) and marvel at her tenacity in everything she does. One perfect example is the writing, completion and publication of what is just the first satisfyingly lengthy book in a series about a place called Charanthe. (The fact that I write regency romance novels is no impediment to my appreciation of a great fantasy tome--it was my first literary love and I read pretty much everything that was out there prior to 1989 which is when my first child was born and I started in on the regency romance genre, whole hog.) (I can't explain why.) (Not because I am reticent but because I don't KNOW.)

The heroine is a lovely girl named Eleanor who lives in a land where children are separated from their parents at a very young age and taken to schools to be trained for jobs that best suit their talents and natural inclinations. But Eleanor is not your every day citizen of Charanthe. The job she is assigned upon graduation is laughably easy and utterly boring so she sets off on her own to find her destiny. However, before she can get there, she is pressed into service aboard a ship.

They sail for many days . . .

. . .and many nights . . .

. . . .until she is captured and taken to where she suffers much brutality, including numerous knife wounds (though I won't spoil the fun and spill how she came by them). Poor Eleanor started out as an unblemished, beautiful girl and evolved into a strong, tough, but scarred woman, a bit like the one pictured below . . .

Me, without my eyebrows on--a grim sight, indeed.

Unlike me, there was no one to stitch up her wounds.

(Here's a close up for those who are strong of stomach. And, by the way, let this be a warning to you sun worshippers out there!)

However, in Eleanor's case, the expression that goes along the lines of "If you think THIS is bad, you should see the other guy" is more than fitting. In fact, there was is so much fighting, training to fight, and plain old horseplay with knives, daggers, sharpened metal stars and, my personal favorite, the hand harp, in this book, it makes me more than a little glad the author lives across the pond and the entire U.S. of A. away. Should you go to her blog and take a peek at her picture, you, too, will wonder where this sweet young woman learned how to even begin writing this book.

The point is, this is a great, brilliant, smashing read that men, women, boys and girls can enjoy. It is clean (take that Stephenie Meyer!) and there is nothing in it that you would blush to have your teeny-bopper read (take that Suzanne Collins!). However, U.S. readers should keep in mind that the spelling is according to the King's English so "color" is "colour" and "organize" is "organise" and so on and so forth. Do not toss your book or your kindle (yes, this is available in ebook form!!!!) across the room in disgust in the mistaken belief that the author can't spell. Instead, it would behoove you to read until the very end and find out how Eleanor "grows" up and gets comfortable with all of those scars.

You can buy this book on Amazon.com. You will also want to enter the fab contest Rachel has going on Goodreads to win a free copy
but hurry, hurry, hurry, because the deadline to enter is January 31st. I should also warn you that, as of this writing, there are already 805 people in line ahead of you.

Might I add, "good luck" and "wowza"!!!

You Know You Have a Book Coming Out When . . .

2011-01-22T13:44:00.001-08:00

. . . your ARCs (advanced readers copies) arrive and you find that you have to

sit down and read it right this very minute

-- even though you know every single word

. . . you feel like a hypocrite for not reading blogs,

full well knowing you are about to start a spate of manic blogging for

the book blog tour (and the guilt is killing you) . . .

You realize all of your latest clothing purchases coordinate with the colors of

your book cover.

all photos courtesy of Photofunia.com (no, they're not real)
(but wouldn't it be cool if they were?)

In Which We Venture Into the Teeth of a Filthy Storm and Nearly Die

2011-01-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

Some of you might remember my three-installment saga (which I wrote long, long ago when I was still popular based on the quality and number of comments I received) about our last trip to the snow five years ago. It was a doozy. Now that we have dared to venture back into the deadly wet stuff (a Christmas present for the Middle Child that made her so happy, she cried tears of True Joy) I can honestly say that should she ever move to a snowy location, I shall not be visiting her there. Evah.

Of course, heading off to Tahoe (a four hour drive in good conditions) when the driver has full and complete knowledge that both roads that lead to our destination are closed seems a foolhardy thing to do. Might I submit this bit of pertinent information: it is. But Daddy has a hard time denying his little girl anything and since tears of True Joy are rare at our house, heading out with hopes that one of the roads would be open by the time we arrived on its snowy threshold seemed a good idea. Only, how to choose which road?

Naturally, we chose wrongly but a quick call to the Highway Patrol Hotline informed us that the other road was now open. Of course, we had to backtrack for quite a ways, then drive all the way North of the lake (in Tahoe) then across the top of it (such fosisticated language!) and down the other side since our destination was south of the lake (in Tahoe). There was a road we could have used to cut across but, naturally, it was closed. Apparently all the major snow was clogged up in one location (clearly the work of evil snowplows bent on ruining our day). In fact, we later learned that the quickest route to Tahoe from our house was closed for days due to avalanche conditions (the nice police officer who made us turn around said we could try to get across but he could guarantee we would get stuck in the snow and no one would be able to get to us to dig us out for Quite Some Time). (Believe it or not, The Spouse actually considered this for a moment.) (We could have almost died if we had.) (However, as we did almost die in spite of our taking hugely time-consuming detours (12 hours on the road rather than 4) it’s a moot point.)

The deathly hour in question was our 11th on the road—and we had just crossed over into the Nevada side of the area. We had been through the ghastly mountain pass that looked as if it was going to rain boulders down on our heads and the dark, winding roads that required chains and driving five miles per hour. Yes, indeed, we were now in civilization and since we had no desire to break our chains on the snow-free roads in town (something we have done before) (namely, during out last trip to the snow) The Spouse removed them.

It was a choice I whole-heartedly agreed with. There was no way I intended to buy another set of chains for the privilege of spending more quality (they say "quantity" IS "quality" time, after all) time with a gassy 250 pound Man Child and a bichon frise. (And, yes, we brought our dog because our last snow trip wasn’t punishing enough.) What we hadn’t counted on, however, was black ice.

I had no premonition or idea that we could possibly be in danger except for the constant and unrelenting fear that every mother has when taking her kids out on the road in the bad weather and on a trip designed for pleasure and entertainment since all mothers know that those kinds of things always end in disaster, as if we don’t deserve it and will be punished for acting on our desires for some kind of break from the daily routine. In fact, I have so feared getting in a car crash since my oldest was five days old that when I first realized we were in some kind of crazy danger, it was almost a relief. “Okay this is it, now I can stop worrying about it!” was the prevailing emotion.

If you look carefully, you can see our Jack in the Box Reindeer antenna ball surveying the scene

However, my first thought, as we slid sideways across the road from our lane into the next was that surely the car would stop and soon. The Spouse would apply the breaks and we would stop, even if it was nose-first into the fast approaching bank of snow on the side of the road. There was no thought spared for any cars that might be around us and crashed into, no thought of my kids in the seats behind me, not a second spared for the welfare of the dog napping in my lap. Then the car turned in the opposite direction and that’s when I knew the truth and felt all that relief. It was just after that, when we slid backwards along the snow bank (followed by another crazy half turn so that our rear end was up in the snow and the nose of the car pointed at the road) that I started to scream like a chick in a horror movie. I screamed and screamed and screamed whilst my kids remained eerily silent (it’s okay, I was still unaware of their presence at this point) until the car slid sweetly back onto a black-ice-free section of the road and The Spouse easily turned the wheel in the correct direction and we were once again on our way. The whole thing took all of 30 seconds.

Now that imminent danger was past, I remembered that I was a mother and my children had almost perished in a horrid accident. Heart pounding, I began to call their names and ask if they were all right. They were too shocked to say a word and then I really became afraid, especially for my daughter (who started this whole thing with her dadgum tears of joy) because she was in the “way back” (as we often said as kids piling into the station wagon) and I couldn’t see any part of her (though stray parts drifting into my view would be a Bad Thing). Finally she answered that she was fine and that’s when I remembered that I had a dog and it was in my lap and she hadn’t been thrown through the windshield or even peed on me. Hysterical laughter ensued.

The next day, we did get to enjoy the area a bit. We took a sleigh ride near the banks of the lake (gorgeous) and in spite of the fact that the Big Guy was waiting in the car, (he’s usually the common denominator in these events) the harness broke on the sleigh. (This kind of thing always happens when we are around. Always. We have been on trains that have broken down, etc. etc. etc. They should tattoo warnings on our foreheads to faciliate rapid fleeing into the night upon our approach.)

Yes, yes, and yes-the dog was cold! Some claim icicles were involved. I plead the fifth.

And, in spite of the fact that the snow saucer Mommy brought was actually an AbSlide, we found a great place to toboggan. By that time, it was nearly dark and 14 degrees so I was forced to seek shelter in the car since my lungs are the California Hot House Floweriest part of me and were threatening to give up the ghost. Naturellement, (French for “ironic”) the drive home was clear and dry and no chains were needed.

The Little Guy arming himself.

The Middle Child arming herself and the Little Guy getting wise.

They say it takes approximately nine months to forget the pain of childbearing long enough to decide to have another. Our last snow trip was five years ago. It was another five years between that one and the one prior. One can only assume it takes five years to forget the trauma a California Hot House Flower experiences during a Trip To The Snow. Come back in five years to see how it all turns out. Assuming I survive the trip . . .

Gluten Free Candy Cane Christmas Cookies

2010-12-21T14:46:00.000-08:00

I did it! I successfully altered a favorite recipe and made it gluten free. Woo hoo! Candy cane cookies are a bit difficult and delicate even using wheat flour because the sugar is all confectioner's rather than regular table sugar. Using the lighter flours accentuated these challenges but it was worth it in the end. For those who don't need the gluten free recipe, here, to start off with, is the regular one (make these today, you won't be sorry!)

My Mom's Candy Cane Cookies

1/2 cup soft shortening

1/2 cup butter

1 cup sifted confectioner's sugar

1 egg

1.5 teas almond extract

1 teas vanilla

2.5 cups sifted flour

1 teas salt

1/2 teas red food coloring

(yes, I used green for the gluten free versions--I would like to say it was because I was thinking ahead and needed to tell them apart from the regular version but it was simply because none of the three boxes of food coloring rattling around in my cupboards had any red left)

1/2 table sugar for sprinkling mixed with 1/2 cup crushed candy cane

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Mix thoroughly the shortening, butter, confectioner's sugar, egg and flavorings. Sift together flour, salt and stir in. Divide dough in half.

Blend red food coloring into 1/2 of dough. Roll 1 teaspoon of each color dough into a long strip about 4" long. Place strips side by side then twist together to form rope. Place on ungreased cookie sheet and make into candy cane shapes. Bake about 9 minutes. Sprinkle with mixture of 1/2 cup crushed candy cane and 1/2 cup sugar.

As I said, make these pronto and enjoy sweet, flavorful, tender cookies. They get a bit frustrating because of the rolling between your hands and shaping and sometimes, no matter what you do, they break in your hands and often when you remove them from the cookie sheet after baking, but they are worth it.

Gluten Free Candy Cane Cookies

Use the recipe above but switch out the wheat flour for two cups Brown Rice Flour Mix (I'll explain in a bit), 1/2 cup sweet rice flour (see below for where to buy) and add 1 teaspoon xanthun gum.

Before forming the canes, chill the dough for three hours or overnight as the dough is very soft. Work with only small amounts of dough at a time. If it gets too soft, return to the fridge or freezer before continuing. When you have all the canes formed, put the entire sheet into the fridge for at least ten minutes to stiffen before baking as these are even softer and more delicate than the wheat variety. However, they are even more tender and melt-in-your-mouth, too. I actually ended up adding a bit more vanilla and almond flavoring, also, as the xanthun gum adds a bitter taste to the dough. They spread out a bit more than the wheat version but it's what they taste like that matters.

I learned about Brown Rice Flour Mix from Annalise G. Roberts as seen in her cook book "Gluten-Free Baking Classics". The mix is made of 2 parts brown rice flour, (extra finely ground), 2/3 part potato starch (not potato flour) and 1/3 part tapioca flour. The potato starch and tapioca flour are easy to find but the extra finely ground brown rice flour she recommends can be purchased only at Authentic Foods in Southern California. Fortunately they ship. The Sweet Rice Flour is also available at www.authenticfoods.com. These finely ground flours are a bit expensive but they are the difference between dry, heavy baked goods that fall apart and light and tender ones that hold together better. Merry Christmas!!!

A Little Christmas Tour Through a Little Christmas House

2010-12-20T12:22:00.000-08:00

Winter Wonderland

Deck The Halls

O Christmas Tree

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Hark the Herald Angels Sing

O Holy Night

Merry Christmas to one and all! I love you~

to read a post about silver leafing the brass candelstick lights on my mantel, go HERE

to see last year's Christmas decor tour, click HERE

to see 2008's Christmas decor, click HERE

While Visions of Sugar Plums Dance in My Head

2010-12-12T13:33:00.000-08:00

I was leafing through some old blog posts (if it can be said that one leafs via computer screen--if one can’t, I am hereby officially filing a protest against technology and how it’s making so many lovely words useless, obsolete and no longer needed whilst adding some pretty ugly words to the vernacular such as "blogger", "webinar", "blogosphere" and all those products that start with the lower case letter “i”, a fact that has my 9 year old utterly perplexed) (sorry, Lara, for the lengthy interjection) and even chuckling at a few of them, causing my blue mood over the Christmas tree lights that have gone on strike, the pain in every part of my body due to the coming rain and the fact that there is no magic wand that can turn my favorite holiday cookies into the gluten-free version, to lighten perceptibly.

One post, in particular, really made me laugh which is a mean feat in light of my light-less, pain-filled, candy-cane-cookie-free Christmas and I feel prompted to repost it. However, one cannot underestimate one’s appreciation for one’s own words, regardless of their true worth and, therefore, can’t guarantee that YOU will be glad one took time out from her pity party to post a rerun. Yet, here I am in full-wallow (though, as I said, that in which I wallow has become less deep) with an old list of search word terms (a word or group of words a person typed into a search engine that led them, for better or for worse, to my blog) spit out by my google watch-dog, as well as a few newer ones I thought worth including.

Super Romance a fake? (remember the fake My Super Romance blog? How I got hits on that is rather remarkable but it just goes to show how interested everyone was in the whole darn thing—kudos to Sue!)
Iconic eyebrows (yes, I have one)
Problem children refusing to be clean (I’m an expert in this one)
Best tattoos ever
Tom Welling dressed in Superman clothes (good luck, but if you find one, will you PLEASE forward it to me?) (Two years later, I’m still interested.)
Totally shocking (but not surprising)
Clone Avril Lavigne (must we?)
Best tattoo Switzerland (I really must stop posting about tattoos)
Squirting twin sisters (I don’t want to know)
Burning alcohol fumes drunk (I am leading a whole generation astray)
Anglophile living in England (is possible? Well, yes, if I moved there, that’s exactly what I’d be)
Can’t take him anywhere (amen sister!)
How wheat was made (I’m scared)
William Shatner illness (now I’m worried—a world without WS is a world without, er, um, Shakespeare. Am I right?)
Wheat brain (and here I thought it was only me)
Young and tender (we’re talking about edible plant shoots here, right?)
Feet in your face (this one is becoming a perennial favorite)
Drunk off alcohol fumes (fumes happen)
Men like romance (good to know)
Steal child (please don’t)
Is being whiny contagious (an emphatic yes!)
My mind go blank (clearly)
Obsessions with illness in head (me too!)
Wheat I say to my mother in anniversarys mothers day (original spelling preserved)
Dunhaven key chain (I want one!)
Humid seat hot (indeed it is!)
Bichons with curly hair (if your bichon doesn’t have curly hair, what you’ve got there is an imposter, otherwise known as a Maltese)
Methinks she who said it (it probably was)
How many pounds Tom Welling? (is nothing sacred?)
You-tube family members in polymer clay (this seems a good way to bend people to one’s will)
Peer gynt syndrome (I had no idea, but I probably have it)
Why does my mind go blank? (I can’t remember)
How to create my blanks ( )

And here are some of the more recent gems:

What is a romantic idealist (someone who lives life in torturous emotional pain)
Idealists easily hurt (see above)
Extension cords from Christmas vacation (I hadn’t realized this phenomenon existed only for those lucky enough to vacation at Christmas)
Messy house and laundry everywhere OR messy house OR messy kitchen (I get ‘em all and lots of ‘em but my favorite one is “messy house because of fibromyalgia”-- as if anyone needed to google it to make sure their house was indeed messy because of unremitting pain greatly exacerbated by cleaning the house)
Avril Lavigne car (or husband or boyfriend or hat, either way, I seem to be the source of all things Avril)
One computer by child (I believe it)
Romantic tombstone (I’m probably the only blog that came up on that list)
Buy Martha Stewart ironstone white paint (Do!)
Font a Lolita scorned (I very much want and must have a font that smacks of “Lolita scorned”)
Are teens really incapable of cleaning their rooms (let’s be fair and look at the evidence .. . yes, they are)
Miss awful the book (trying not to think too much about that one)
Take girl feeling blue (yes, please!)

The Thanksgiving Post, Better Late Than Never

2010-12-02T00:58:00.000-08:00

There are times when I have to remind myself to be grateful for this heap of bones that passes for a body. I mean, really, who is grateful for a body that translates sugar directly into pain? (I’m in a lot of pain these days. Pretty much constantly. I love sugar.) (Too bad sugar doesn’t love me.) (But I’m okay with that. I’m not going to do anything drastic like go on a sugar strike until it changes it’s mind.) (Meanwhile, if I imbibed sugar via a drip line, it couldn’t make its way into my blood stream any faster than it is already.) My thyroid gland just can’t seem to get leveled off, my gluten problem is making it hard to cope with my troubles via comfort food and, this time of year with this cold, wet weather, I’m not able to do much due to the afore-mentioned pain and ensuing exhaustion.

It’s times like these when I wish my body could handle a bit of hard work. In this age of computers and technology, few of us know what it means to work hard, to use our bodies to labor, day in and day out, since machines do most of the intense physical labor for us. (I'm assuming that none of you reading is a construction worker.) (Or on a chain gang breaking up rocks in Siberia.) (Or run a daycare center.) As for me, the most intense labor I engage in is the peeling of that darn silver paper off of one Hershey Kiss after another. It’s sweaty work for a wimp like me but it’s not enough. When I do feel that the need to get something done outweighs the pain I’ll experience afterwards, I often find myself thinking of my neighbor, the one whose backyard bordered on mine when we lived in Littleton Colorado.

We lived in the Alamo district, the “old” area of town, amongst a group of garage-less, mostly brick houses, all built by the owners way back when. Each house was different than the next (though, like I said, lots of red brick) and there were few fences. Somewhere along the way, someone put up a three foot high chain link fence that separated our enormous backyard from the lane behind it. I don’t think Newt, my backyard neighbor, had any fence at all.

We often saw Newt out in the yard, digging in his garden. This was rather remarkable since Newt was 94 years old at the time. During his life he had married, taken care of, nursed and buried two wives (they were sisters—the second one never married until her sister left Newt to her in her will (just kidding)—this made a big impression on me), worked in a factory, made gorgeous furniture and dug in his garden—all with only one arm. It was almost hypnotic to watch him through our kitchen window as he turned over a spade filled with dirt, jammed the shovel back into the ground, kicked it down good and hard with one foot, then turned it up and out, over and over again, the empty sleeve of one shirt fluttering with the movement of his efforts.

Sometimes we could hear the whir of machinery as he turned the legs of wood furniture down in his basement. He did this when it was too cold to go outside and dig. He knew that if he were to survive another winter, he needed to work and work hard. And he did. Every room in his house had been transformed by a wall that was either moved, taken down or added in. Most of his furniture was of his own creation. His assortment of brass bells and candlesticks, which was acquired after he was no longer allowed to drive, was collected by riding his bike, one armed, from garage sale to garage sale.

One day we could see that Newt had a visitor. I thought maybe it was an old crony of his. The man was a bit stout and had shock of gray hair. We sauntered across the way to chat and learned that the man was Newt’s grandson. It was quite shocking to watch this grandson who looked almost as old as Newt. It was even more shocking to know that he was letting his grandfather do all the digging. He must have known Grandpa too well to offer to do it for him.

I haven’t laid eyes on Newt for eleven years but I still have a lot I can learn from him.

I am grateful for my body. Work hard. Be self-reliant.

Thanks, Newt.

What Think Ye of Christmas?--Who Won It?

2010-11-23T17:48:00.000-08:00

And the winner is . .. Dedee!!! For those of you who didn't win (but are all still winners in MY book) (and I mean that (almost) literally) (because I have a book coming out and a lot of you are in it) go HERE to buy your own copy.

Go HERE if you want to see my Thanksgiving Decor (because Jessica wanted me to).

What Think Ye of Christmas?--How I Love It!!!

2010-11-13T15:21:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, a lovely friend invited me into her home. We (our group included her sister, otherwise known as the the selfless "Molly" and her/their/my/our friend Kazzy) had a delicious dinner of homemade soup and bread. Afterwards, we noshed on incredible desserts along with their entire book group whom she had encouraged to read my very first novel. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me in my entire life, made even more remarkable by the fact that I had never met any of these ladies in person until I flew from my home in California to theirs in Utah in time for dinner.

How cool is that?

So, when Jana (known as Charrette on her blog) asked me to blog about HER first book and offer a copy to give away, I was thrilled to be a part of it. I was even more thrilled when this slim little volume (written by Ester Rasband, illustrated by Jana Winters Parkin) arrived in the mail (on my birthday, no less!) and I was able to read every measured word matched with every inspired stroke of Jana's luminous paintings. (Read here and here and then keep reading about how Jana used inspiration to create these gorgeous works of art.)

What struck me first about these gentle, delicate and ethereal illustrations was how unlike they are from the usually rather robust representations of over-abundance we are accustomed to see when looking at anything having to do with a secular Christmas celebration. How much better suited these magical renditions are to the thoughtful message of "What Think Ye Of Christmas?"

Second, I was struck by the theme of symbolism. We often hear about the symbols of Christmas and what they mean: the candy cane for the shepherd's crook, and so on and so forth. However, the meaning behind the symbols so beautifully depicted here are much more meaningful than a curved piece of wood. These symbols bring one directly to Christ, to His gift to each one of us, of our obligation to receive that gift if we are to truly celebrate Christmas as it was intended to be celebrated.

I was particularly overcome with emotion when I read the scripture quoted on the last page, the very one my son learned and memorized for the children's program at church just a few days prior to reading this book. "After the many testimonies which have been given of Him, this is the testimony, last of all, which we give of Him: That He Lives!"

It is, quite simply, the best thing you can buy as a Christmas gift for anyone, including yourself! And I am giving away a copy this very minute. If you want to be included in the giveaway, please make a comment saying so. If you linked here from Facebook and you don't have a google I.D., then just comment on FB or send me an email and I will include you. I will figure out a fair way to randomly choose a winner. (The deadline to enter is Saturday night the 20th of November at midnight.)

At this wonderful time of year, I am so thankful for the God-given talents each one of us enjoys, via our own but mostly, via those of others around us. I am so grateful to have been asked to do this for someone who has done so many lovely things for me and am over-joyed that I have such a wonderful group of friends "out there, somewhere" . . . Hugs!

Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind and Then She. . . .

2010-11-04T10:30:00.000-07:00

Need I say more?

(she's up for pre-order at a smashing good price at barnesandnoble.com)

Many thanks to the wonderfully talented Cindy Iverson for the book jacket inspiration!

A Most Haunted Halloween

2010-10-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

Halloween has always been a time of magic. However, there is one Halloween that stands out above the rest, one I think of as the year of the Samhain Santa, as in, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”. Though, of course, this story has nothing to do with him . . .

What happened was quite, quite unforgettable, especially since I was an adult when these events occurred and long past believing in witches with black peaked hats, vampires with long peaked teeth and Frankenstein’s Monsters with peaked metal stubs on their necks. As for the other reason . . it had nothing to do with what I thought but with what I knew: that this was the only year of my entire life when the full moon would fill the sky on Halloween night.

On a night like that, anything was possible.

My youngest was only seven weeks old at the time which made me 1. far younger than I am now (which has nothing to do with anything) and 2. suffering from severe sleep deprivation and lacking in energy for getting myself decked out in a costume. Though dressing up for Halloween was something I adored above all things in my youth, reveling in matching costumes with my boyfriend, fiancé or husband, whichever the case might have been at the time, it was a bit beyond me in my sleep deprived state. In spite of it, I did manage to get the Big Guy, the Middle Child and the Little Guy into acceptable outfits for trick-or-treat.

We headed out into the full-mooned night with great anticipation. That great, big, round piece of cheese took up an enormous section of sky and hovered over us wherever we went. We walked amongst the darkened streets of our neighborhood filled with rambling ranch-style homes with a forest of towering trees in each yard. It seemed a mile from one front door to the next. There were trick-or-treaters about, adding that unique flavor to the air, but then we suddenly came around the corner of a street a bit darker and much quieter than the others. It was a street we didn’t know well, we didn’t know anyone who lived there and so didn’t know to expect what happened next.

Shivering a bit with apprehension, we stealthily approached a house aglow with the flames of an iron cauldron in the driveway being stirred by a wondrous witch. Next to her, a dark fir framing each side of him in the nearly black sky and the ripe, heavy and impossibly round moon just above his head, was the inky silhouette of the perfect Frankenstein’s Monster.

The top of his head was appropriately squared, the ears sticking out amongst a thatch of brindled hair. His shoulders were as boxy as his noggin and his coat sleeves were more than a bit too short, just as one would expect. His pants were, as well, and his shoes looked as wrong-sized as one could tell in the black night.

For a full glorious moon-filled moment, we stared at him and he (we assume as we couldn’t see his expression in the night), stared back at us.

It was the best Halloween moment of my life.

(P.S. Happy Halloween! You all know what I do when life gets beyond my means to control it: I decorate. Click HERE to see this year’s Halloween décor. I mixed it up a bit from the previous years in this house and I must say, I like it quite a bit. It’s a wonder I got anything up at all this year, what with a dangerously slowed down thyroid gland—AGAIN! Increased meds are starting to help a teesny weensy bit. At this rate, I might even be feeling up to taking the Halloween stuff down in time for Christmas! What I hope more than that is to get back to reading your blogs AND writing Miss D Three. Yep, I said it: Miss D Three. I’m committed now, aren’t I?)

In Which the Dragon Wakes From a Long Nap Hugely Angered

2010-10-12T14:46:00.000-07:00

Imagine that you live in a land of dragons of blood reds, gangrenous greens and drowning blues. (See parts one, two and three of Here There Be Dragons by clicking the numbers or see the side bar) Imagine the one that haunts your house, a Roof Dragon, is particularly vile and nasty, so vile that, despite the fact that you and your family are most in need of the “Anti-Dragon Defense Team” (Serving the dragon-infested for 89 years!) you are least likely to receive a visit from them. Roof Dragons are the deadliest kind of dragon of all and, in the end, nobody relishes the idea of putting themselves in harm’s way. It’s uncomfortable, scary, and so darn hot!

Imagine when one or two saintly individuals do make the attempt ease your burdens, the dragon becomes so angry and full of hot air, you are forced to firmly but politely reject their offers to be of service because you are so very afraid of what could happen. Meanwhile, you never get a vacation, a reprieve, a respite or even a rest from the dragon; it’s always there, hovering over your shoulder, no matter what. You must constantly work at placating it or you will be punished through deepened poverty, isolation, sickness and overall weakness. But what does the dragon require in return for its dubious silence? All in your possession that stands between you and deepened poverty, isolation, sickness and overall weakness. There are moments when the irony of this truth fills you with ice-cold fury. There are other moments when it fills you with deep hopelessness and sadness. There are many, far too many, moments when the puzzle is so clearly without an answer, the riddle so without a resolution, you feel on the brink of madness.

Imagine doing everything you can to provide your family and yourself with what passes as a somewhat normal life. Imagine you are somewhat successful at it, so that even you begin to think it’s real—that your life won’t always have to be full of yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, hourly sacrifices to the dragon—and, as a result, you blithely forgo a sacrifice or two. Sometimes the dragon seems not to notice, so often, in fact, it anchors your belief that you are finally making the beginnings of escape. Then, one day, without any warning at all (it always happens thus) the dragon becomes enraged over something so small it is ridiculous. It roars its anger and hatred until you, cowering in a corner, shivering with the pain of your newest burns, far more painful than you remembered, realize how blind, stupid and utterly foolish you have been. Devastated, the sense of loss, disillusionment, despair and hopelessness threatens to swallow you into a far deeper pit of pain than the burns in your flesh ever could.

There are some who truly want to help and truly try. They will never know how much their efforts count, even when they fail.

There are those who truly want to help and truly can’t. They are treasured as much as those who do.

There are those who want to help but are afraid. They will never know the blessings they might have earned through their trying.

There are those who rush to your aid and believe they are helping when they minimize your challenges, preach to you lessons you learned long ago, or offer solutions that are either based on total ignorance or are so obvious you have already tried them and let their blackened remains flutter from your near-lifeless fingers in the wake of the dragon’s charry disapproval. You want to give them credit for trying but it is sometimes rather difficult.

There are those who feel they should help but simply don’t want to.

There are those who vaguely feel they should probably be doing something to help but find it too unpleasant to think about long enough to ever come to any kind of accurate conclusion. Some even bury these feelings when the burns in your clothes and the soot on your face fill them with reproach. Burned clothing and scorched hair are some of the things that make them most uncomfortable in life so they look away, feeling fully justified in their lack of consideration and kindness, while you and your family, with hands that hang down, go, sorrowing, away.

And then there is God. You know He is there and that the solace He offers is all that stands between you and utter destruction--and this gives you endurance. You know that one day your dragon will be eviscerated by a power you do not possess--and this gives you hope. Mostly, you know that all the suffering you endure in the meantime serves an important purpose--and this makes you glad. Yet, you can’t help but wonder how much of what you endure is ultimately needful for your salvation and how much of it is an opportunity for others to be blessed through their willingness to cart some of it away.

It’s an answer that is imminently unknowable when standing in the glare of the dragon’s roar.

(Comments off) (Okay, so they're still on, even though I turned them off, so . . .just pretend they're off.)

(Things have been so hot and smoky around here, I haven’t often been able to get to my computer through the haze. Yes, I am okay (mostly) but, just when I felt like I was beginning to catch up with my friends, I had to make another hasty retreat. After much girding of loins and the smelting of ore for armor and dragon-slaying equipage, we are in a bit of a wait-and-see pattern whilst we lick our wounds and make plans for navigating the holidays. It all seems to be taking so long . . .just know that I love you and am grateful for you. I think of you often and admire you for your willingness to cart away my cares, bits by bits of my burden, all of them pieces of my pain.)

(If you think you know the name of my dragon—psssst! It’s a what, not a who—email me via the address in the sidebar or that other one you already have.)

In Which I Review the Amateur Book Reviewer

2010-10-07T12:27:00.000-07:00

Like all authors who have slaved over a book with hopes of publication and has—hooray!--succeeded, I am grateful for book reviewers, both professional and not. After all, they have taken the time to read my book and say something about it. That is a gift!

However, to my dismay, I have concluded that some amateur online book reviewers, whether it be on Goodreads, Amazon, or their own book review blog, could benefit from hearing the perspective of the average author, something with which I am willing, nay, eager, to provide. (I will endeavor to be kind in my review of the amateur reviewer’s nasty habits.) (Really.) (Especially since I have a book coming out in a couple of months.) (In spite of the alleged pitfalls and weaknesses of the book that was published last time.) (Yes, really!) (And it's a SEQUEL!)

1. Be accurate. For example, it would be inaccurate to say how annoying it is that every character in the book has a name that starts with the letter V when, in fact, there are only three of twelve who do. Those readers who despise when an author shows just such a lack of originality might turn their nose up at a book that is actually quite original in the area of character naming, and thereby, a potential reader is lost to its hard-working creator. In addition, anyone who has read the book will know it is not true, most particularly the author, someone who, ahem, has been paid for what she/he writes, and you will simply look, ahem, foolish.

2. Educate yourself. If you have written a glowing review that the professional reviewers hated or if you have criticized a book that the professional reviewers loved, this is something you probably ought to know before you hit the publish button. When you claim a book is, for example, “predictable” and “forgettable”, yet, the professionals who are paid to read and review books for professional publications from which professional buyers make their professional book buying purchases claim the book to be “refreshing” and “unique”, even, "elevated above the genre's usual fare", in reviews that can be read online by anybody, (including your readers), you run the risk of looking ignorant.

3. Resist reviewing the author in the midst of your book review. No one is perfect, everyone has their own set of personal strengths and weaknesses, even people who write books, so keep the review to the merits of the printed page, not the character who wrote it. If you have a beef with the author, perhaps you are not the right person to do a review on his/her books. When you start to spout off with conjectures in the midst of a book review about the author, whether you know the author or, especially, if you do not, you simply come across as petty.

4. Remember that the author is a real person. With feelings, (and insecurities) (and possibly paranoia) and hopes for a successful career. If a book is truly awful, a reviewer has every right to say so—even if it isn’t. However, unless the author is so successful that your pithy little review (does that sound bitter?) is of no interest OR/AND, he/she doesn’t have time to read them all, the chances that the author is going to read your one or two star review filled with cutting remarks is highly likely. And when that review is nestled amongst plenty of four and five star reviews, you just sound cruel.

5. Keep your ego out of it. Most reviewers do a good job but once in a while there will be one who makes it his/her mission to write something witty and snarky in order to make themselves look, er, well, witty and snarky. Though this might be entertaining for your friends and readers, it really is a form of bullying; i.e. cutting someone down in order to elevate one’s self. In the end, this comes off as plain old jealousy.

6. Be respectful. After all, the author has published a book. This is no small achievement. In fact, most would say it is a big deal. A person has to be somewhat intelligent to get a work of writing between covers, as few books by stupid people make it into print. You don't have to like every book you read, or even pretend to, but do you really think you know better than a smart author, a professional editor and professional book reviewers? When you couch your negative remarks in condescending terms, you just might come across as arrogant.

7. Remember that books are a personal experience. How one responds to a book involves many factors. Try to be open-minded in your review approach. Of course, your review is your opinion and that is what reviews are all about. However, damning statements might turn away a reader who has different tastes than you and who might have enjoyed the book if read. You owe some amount of partiality (and accuracy and respect and all the rest) to those who read your reviews. If not, you simply come across as someone who shouldn’t be reviewing books.

We're Having a Heat Wave, a Tropical Heat Wave

2010-09-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

The mildish summer turned into a mildish fall, then suddenly did an about face and became a scorching hot humid July in September. We are basking in it, as you can see by the glow in the Little Guy’s face as we enjoy an after dark 90 degree hike through the neighborhood. But really, I’m just making that my first photo to throw off the Middle Child in case she walks into the room, since this post is really about her and I’m not “allowed” to post about her. It’s okay because I think girls are supposed to be bossy but that doesn’t mean I have to do what she says. (Do I?) (No?) (I didn’t think so.)

Mostly I wanted to share the card she made for me as a birthday gift. It was the best present I received, and that includes the small, light, slim and blessedly straight-lined digital camera my sweetheart surprised me with (it’s hard to surprise me but he did it!).

The Middle Child didn't just see her grandparents through her camera lens, she saw devotion.

So, shhhhh!, here goes:

Well, Mom, it’s here. You’re finally the big 3-0. (Did I mention that she’s a fiction writer like me?) It’s a big step but I think you can handle it. You might have to start dyeing your hair, eating healthier and drawing on your eyebrows. (I have been doing all of these things since I was 35—she’s such a card!)

Look through the glass in my bedroom door and you will see the Middle Child as depicted by my talented brother.

Life will get a little harder with each passing year, but more rewarding, too. One day you and Dad will share a life of peace, quiet, and television whenever you want. (She’s uber smart since hopes for peace and quiet to watch T.V. at some point in the future is what I live and breathe for.) I hope you will visit your kids sometimes. Bottom line, at the end of the road, everything you’ve done for this family will all be worth it. You’ll be glad you got through it, and we’ll be sorry we didn’t do more to help out. (If only she could tell me how I can make her sorrier in the here-and-now … ) You are a queen who isn’t yet treated the way she deserves. I’ll try to remember what you mean to me and show my feelings through my actions. (woot woot!) (actually, I think that calls for one more woot!)

The Middle Child being her wise and witty self through pantomine. Did I mention?--she's uber talented.

One day Queen Heidi (can one possibly get tired of hearing that?) will be treated, finally, like the selfless giver you are, tenfold! (She’s smart but I still have her fooled, much like how I have the Big Guy 129% convinced that I have eyeballs in the back of my head.) It’ll be late, but when I learn what it’s like to be a mother, and times that difficulty by 100, I might be close to comprehending half of what your motherhood was like, and I’ll appreciate your hard work, and I will never forget it. (I hope I am still alive to enjoy it.)

Thanks Mommy, love the Middle Child. (Except she put her real name.) (She’s clever like that.)

Buttons I Would Totally Wear

2010-09-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

If we can have August in September why can't we have September in January?

I live to blog but life keeps getting in the way.

I always thought it was nice to be fair. Turns out it is just a recipe for skin cancer.

Wear sunscreen for decades--get skin cancer! It's a thing.

In the first place God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made School Boards.~ Mark Twain

The best friends have a Google I.D.
(Thanks for being mine.)

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Over-Reactive

2010-09-12T17:57:00.000-07:00

Last week I received a diagnosis from a doctor that made me very happy. Once again, I was down with a virus that had either by-passed most members of my family or from which they suffered marginally--or at least a whole lot less than I. (What happened to building a better immune system as you age?) (Because, age, I have, I can assure you.) (And to whomever welcomed me into the decade of the 40’s in the comments on my last post, bless your sweet, cotton-pickin’ little heart!) (Because I’ve been here for quite some time.) (And it feels like 60.)

I was told that I have an over-reactive airway system which means that what makes ordinary reactors sick but better after a few days and a modest amount of OTC’s, will cause MY airways (nose, sinuses, lungs) to over-react and induce misery, severe sleep deprivation, the abuse of OTC’s and finally, an anguished call to the doctor to prescribe antibiotics over the phone b/c I sicken so well and suddenly that I can’t drag myself to the doctor’s office (the anguish part is essential since my medical group requires a body to be sick for ten days before they will prescribe antibiotics. This requires no acting since I get ten days worth of sick in two or three. It might call for a bit of lying (I plead the fifth) but mostly, anguished weeping.)

Sometimes truth is a speck in the ocean. Sometimes it's light filtering through the trees.

And here I thought I was some kind of weakling or hypochondriac. (What a relief!) Most of all, I now understand why I was given an asthma inhaler (but not an asthma diagnosis) after ending up in the hospital struggling for breath in the wake of a fair-to-middling virus a couple of years ago. (I also know why the common cold, for me, results in the usage of an uncommon, downright shocking, budget-busting amount of Kleenex).

After mentally chewing on this for a few days, it occurred to my befuddled brain (cuz, naturally, I’m still sick) that there is much about me that is over-reactive. For example, I am clinically crackers for one to seven days a month—clearly a matter of over-reactive hormones. In fact, I suffer from every single PMS symptom known to man, er, woman. Fortunately, not always at the same time. Some months I get all the physical ones, the next month I’ll get all the emotional ones while the month after that might be a mixed bag. (You never know what you’ll get in a box of cracker jacks!)

But wait, there’s more! My body over-reacts to gluten. To watermelon, broccoli, lettuce, rosemary (which I adore), sugar (ditto but times ten) and citrus. When I was young, the approach of a rain storm made me only a little hyper, then anxious, then I would start experiencing pain, sometimes bad enough to keep me from sleep (one MUST sleep when one entertains dragons at her house), then I would get super depressed, (because I knew what was coming). This last winter, we (as in the royal we—because I’m the Queen of Over-Reactive Syndrome, a name I just invented, proof in the pudding off my royal status, IMHO) added a new symptom: a few hours or so before the rain bursts upon the scene, my body simply shuts down and I fall instantly asleep as if drugged.

Sometimes truth is a bit out of reach.

In the past, I have been unable to lift my arm for a week after carving a pumpkin, windexing the windows, sweeping the floor a little too energetically or from throwing something up onto a loaded truck. A baseball in the jaw (I hate school P.E.--I simply can't stress that enough) resulted in several decades of joint pain and many, many puncture wounds in the lips b/c my jaw refused to open on command (this can be particularly embarrassing whilst eating spaghetti. At a swanky restaurant. With your boyfriend and his local politician father.) Fibromyalgia, another bugaboo from which I suffer, is, by definition, a condition that causes the body to over-react to everyday muscle damage that most bodies simply absorb (and to think I used to take ballet lessons three times a week and dance, a la pointe, until my toes bled! Ditto to playing guitar, only switch out toes for fingers, which I did well but had to quit due to said shoulder pain.)

Then I remembered . . . as a kid I often got ribbed by my older sisters (I could leave that as a stand-alone sentence and it would be a true statement but moving on) (I have read that it takes 10 positive statements to obliterate the damage of one negative statement especially when unleashed on a young child by a parent or authority figure, or anyone who wields some kind of power over the powerless one, whether real or perceived . . . .kind of overwhelming, isn’t it?) for throwing up “at the drop of a hat” (French for “hint of a fever”). I also got teased for limping when I twisted my ankle, accused of faking it when I experienced still unexplained sharp pains in my ribcage and generally disdained when I got sun-sick.

Sometimes, like the forest hidden by the trees, we can't see the truth that's always been there.

And here I thought I was some kind of weakling.

That it was all my fault.

That I was somehow just not good enough.

That I didn’t measure up.

Sniff . . .

One thing I do know that makes things far more difficult: stress. And dragons. And dragons who induce stress. We (as in The Spouse and I) do what we can to eliminate as much of that as possible. (Sorry if it happens to be something or someone you care about.)

One thing I know that helps a lot: knowing what to expect. Dragon fighting (or more accurately, dragon-holding-off, or, as often as not, dragon-induced-damage clean-up) is a full time job and it is sooooooooo much easier if I know/when I know, (just as long as I know!) what to expect. Obviously, knowing how my body reacts to certain foods makes it easy to avoid them (resisting them is an entirely different story—and I’m still learning all the sneaky places gluten hides), but invisible germs, rain storms and other things that rob me of sleep, as well as other people’s right to put their own issues gloriously on display, happen with alarming regularity and often little fanfare.

There are times, however, when someone could have chosen to exercise an ounce of understanding, kindness, forethought or compassion and did not, making my day, job, life disproportionately (as in several pounds-worth) more difficult.

And I over-react.

And you know what?

For the first time in a very long time, indeed, I’m giving myself a pass.

Will You Walk Into My Parlor?

2010-09-03T18:30:00.000-07:00

Things I would tweet if I twittered (and if they were short enough).

I received a letter today from a sweet friend.

(How often does one get letters anymore? Have people younger than twenty even seen one?) Plus--a postcard on the very same day from the very same sweet thing! And guess what? I got a gorgeous homemade card from another friend last week; I am rich!!!

My husband bought three books at Costco today.

I think that means I'm fated to read them. (Curse you, Braden Bell!) Still fighting it, though, since I suspect they are way too close to home for me.

My birthday is later this month.

layers and layers--oh, how I love layers!

I'm going to be (cough-cough) forty-blah blah, (cough). I have instructed The Spouse to take one of my gluten free cake mixes to my favorite bakery and have them whip me up a special cake. Two mixes would be even better! I love layers. In fact, I love them so much, I propose a layer for each year of my life. Way better than (cough-cough) forty (blah-blah) candles!

Let them eat cake.

My 15 year old won’t be home for dinner which means I don’t have to cook, right? I mean, The Spouse, The Big Guy and The Little Guy don’t count, do they?

I am starting to blog more, as in reading the blogs of others.

I am enjoying it very much. I am also being really strict about it (just one hour a day) since I can’t afford to allow it to take over my life. Again. (After all, books don’t write themselves and I have had an awesome idea for another book about Miss D—rather, her daughter and Lucinda’s son. Turns out he’s nothing like his mom. OR his dad. Well, except for the golden hair. Woot woot!) (I also have a great idea for a regency romance starring a stunning red-head with mucho artistic talent named Luisa. Which to write first?) (This isn’t counting the one I’ve been working on. So many stories, too little time.)

Will you walk into my parlor said the spider to the fly--complete poem here. I was surprised at how much in common this post had with the images in this poem--though I did photo-shop out most of the spider webs. (All oddities as far as font sizes and spacing problems are beyond my control. Apparently. Since I have tried to fix them at least four times. Perhaps five is the magic number but I choose not to tempt fate.)