Thankful

I have a lot to be thankful for this and every year. Most immediately--because I'm writing this the morning after Thanksgiving--I'm grateful for the wonderful food and hours of laughter shared with my friends yesterday. Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

1. Having a husband who is also my best friend. He supports, encourages and pushes me and somehow knows exactly when to offer just what I need.

2. Having a good sense of humor. Most of what life throws at me is funny, even if I don't think so at the time.

3. Having a good imagination. Even though this gets me into trouble at times (I hate to fly, because I can always come up with the worst-cast scenario for every bump, jostle and shimmy that plane makes), it has led me into writing and opened up worlds.

4. Having a great family. No matter what, they're there. How cool is that?

5. Having fabulous friends. We laugh, cry and sometimes even scream together. I couldn't get through life without them and they know it.

6. Having good health. So far, so good, but I don't take it for granted and I exercise every day. (Even though I hate it, lol.)

I'm sure there are a hundred other small things to be thankful for, among them would be caffeine, chocolate and wine.

What are you thankful for?

A Little Help From Your Friends

I just got back from the New Jersey Romance Writers annual conference, Put Your Heart in a Book. As usual, it was a ton of fun. There were wonderful workshops, great conversations about writing and lots of laughter. My friend, Sarah White, and I presented our workshop on flawed heroes again. It went well, despite our spate of nerves when Sharon Sala, keynote speaker for the conference, sat in on it.

Giving a workshop has been a real learning experience for me. As the saying goes: I know what I know. Putting it into a coherent format and imparting it to others is the toughest. But when I see heads nodding and maybe an “aha” expression on someone’s face, it’s the greatest feeling. Better still is the question and answer session at the end where we get to help people figure out some of the “hard parts” to their stories. Because everyone needs help with the hard parts. Conferences are a great place to get that help, whether it’s via a workshop or a conversation with a new friend about your latest work-in-progress.

Oh, and I have to give a shout-out to my fellow Maryland Romance Writers. Of the five chapter-mates that I knew attending the conference, two had finalled in the Put Your Heart in a Book contest, and two had finalled in the Gold Leaf contest. Better still, Christie Kelley won the Gold Leaf for her historical romance, Something Scandalous, and Marta Bliese won Put Your Heart in a Book for her unpub’d paranormal, Hangman. Yea!

Feel the Romance

On Saturday, the Maryland Romance Writers had a booth at the Baltimore Book Festival. A lot of the writers from the group—including me—read excerpts from their latest books. We also answered questions about everything from writing to character arc to works in progress.

When I was finished with my reading, one of the visitors mentioned that she was a writer of women’s fiction. She hastily added that she wasn’t sure what the difference between women’s fiction and romance was. Then she said that she had only been reading romantic fiction for two years and that was the source of her confusion. After we all reassured her that none of us knew the difference either, we started to talk about when we had first discovered romance novels.

I grew up in a book-loving family, but I don’t remember my mother reading romance when I was young. My first encounter with the genre was in my early teens, when I visited my grandmother in upstate New York. She was an avid reader of Barbara Cartland. I must admit, I still have a soft spot for those naïve, breathless heroines and their masterful, older heroes. After that, perhaps the same year, a neighbor passed on a pile of Harlequin romances. Through them, I saw a world outside small-town Idaho. Those slim volumes broadened my horizons and made me wonder about the lives of other people in other lands. They were also the genesis of my urge to travel. I still remember the name of the heroine—Lavinia, Vinnie for sort—who took me to the Alhambra for the first time. When I saw it for myself, years later, I couldn’t help but think of her.

But there was more to romance than those sweetly formulaic offerings. When I was a bored babysitter looking for something to read, I found The Flame and The Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss on a bedside table and picked it up. I was thrilled to find out there was more to romantic fiction than masterful men who sat a horse well or who ran corporations with the help of spunky heroines who tamed them. There was sex. Before marriage! On ships and in carriages and outside under the wide blue sky. The heroines were still spunky and heroes masterful, but the stories were deeper, richer and far more complicated emotionally. In short, there were good romances and then there were good books.

From there, I was hooked. All these years later, I still am.

Who got you started reading romance? Any author whose name can still make you sigh and say: “remember when?”

1910 Fire

This summer was the 100-year anniversary of the 1910 fire that devastated three million acres of wilderness in Northern Idaho, Northeast Washington and Western Montana. Within that wilderness were many small towns that were damaged or out-right destroyed by the fire. Eighty-seven people lost their lives. The small community of Avery, Idaho was near the epicenter of the conflagration. Somehow it survived, no doubt due to the sheer stubbornness of the people who lived there. Coincidentally, Avery is the town where I lived for several years in my childhood.

In celebration of the anniversary—and memorial to all who perished—many events were planned around the area. Avery had their own weekend-long commemoration. Friends of mine asked me to contribute books for an auction to raise funds for the small museum there. I gladly agreed and, with the assistance of many wonderful writers at the recent Romance Writers of America conference, put together a bag of autographed books.

Avery was an interesting place to grow up. The political, philosophical and even social differences between the “railroad” folk and the “forest” folk could have divided the community. But a place as small as Avery demanded that everyone work together. We all lived so close to one another—the narrowness of the valley made it impossible to have it any other way—and forced proximity built strong friendships.

I have so many memories of the closeness of the community. Potlucks, parties or just a night’s gathering at the Pub were common. There was softball in the summer and Bridge or Pinochle tournaments in the winter. The entire town came out for the annual Christmas play at the school. They returned another night for the church pageant with the same kids now dressed as shepherds and angels. Both events were held in the school gymnasium, the only place big enough for us all. Plus, it boasted the only stage in town. One year, instead of separate plays for each of the classrooms, the teachers decided to put on “A Christmas Carol.” With thirty-six students in the school, there were just enough of us to fill all the roles.

Memories of that small town have influenced my writing tremendously. I know how aggravated you can be with your neighbor one day, yet extend a hand to help him without question the next. A small community is like a family that way: you don’t get to pick them, but you wouldn’t trade them for anything. Envisioning the details of a small town on the Chesapeake Bay was the easy part of writing the linked books that I’ve just finished. Avery prepared me well.

If I were to write my autobiography, it might begin: Once upon a time, I was a part of this community in Idaho called Avery. In many ways, I still am.

If you’re ever in Northern Idaho, plan a trip up the St. Joe River. Way up the river, just before the blacktop ends, you’ll come across Avery. History lives there.

Delays

I am so sorry to get this in so late, but my mind has been swamped with packing, polishing my pitch and getting ready for the Romance Writer's of America convention in Orlando. I'm so excited! This is my favorite convention and I anticipate it for weeks ahead of time--then spend weeks recovering.

This year, I'm participating in the "Readers for Life" Literacy Signing. What a fabulous program! I am always amazed by--and proud of--the amount of money that is raised. If you've never been there, it is an awesome feeling to be in the same room as all those published writers. Incredibly inspiring, too.

I'm also giving a workshop at the conference this year. My friend, Sarah White, and I are talking about our "Deeply Flawed Heroes" and how to take them to bed (and not regret it in the morning!). We're planning to have a ton of fun and maybe impart a lesson or two. It's our first time presenting at the convention, so we're nervous, but looking forward to the experience.

Some news from me this month is that my upcoming release, Baby Bombshell, got 4 stars from RT Magazine. I confess to being a little concerned aobut this book. You see, Evan is one of those "deeply flawed" heroes I'm going to be talking about on Saturday. I am so happy that someone else loved him too. Well, besides Anna Berzani, the heroine of the book.

Take care and I'll see you next month.

Writer In Residence

My friends, Mary and Barbara, decided to ask their book club to read my April book, An Unexpected Father. They also wanted me to speak at their monthly meeting. I was intrigued—and flattered—by the idea, and a date was set.

Afterward, I had an attack of “oh, what have I done.” This group tends towards the literary. Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence was their last read. How the heck was I going to stack up against him? So, I was a little nervous when I walked into Barbara’s apartment. There were about a dozen people there, apparently a bigger crowd than usual. Gulp! When it was time to start, I was pointed to a chair at one end of the room and the questions began.

From there, the evening went effortlessly. What struck me most was how interested they all were in the process of writing. We talked about the book and the characters, but more about how it got written, how all books get written. I realized that, if D.H. Lawrence had been sitting where I was, they would probably have asked him the same questions.

• Where do you get your ideas? Literally everywhere. From the newspaper, from the internet, from the bus driver, from the grocery-store clerk, from you.

• How long does it take to write a book? It depends on the length of the manuscript, but around five months for An Unexpected Father. I’m a slow writer compared to others I know, but what matters to me is how I feel about the results at the end of each day. If I’m happy with what I’ve written, even though it was only 500 words, then it was a good day.

• How much time do you spend writing each day? In the best of all worlds, six to seven hours. Of course, there are the distractions of life like laundry and cooking and exercise. I confess that I’m easily tempted away from the keyboard by the offer of coffee and a pastry, too.

• Who are your favorite authors? It’s a long list. I’m a voracious reader across all genres: Jane Austen, Mary Renault, Larry McMurtry, Robin McKinley, Dorothy Garlock, T.A. Pratt, David Lodge and soooo many others.

These were just a few of the questions the book club asked. I had nothing to fear and had a great time. I should have known: talking to people who love books is always a joy.

What questions would you ask me, if you could? Or D.H. Lawrence? Or any of the authors of the books on your bedside table?

Summer is the Season

Tourist season has just barely begun here in Philadelphia, the “City of Brotherly Love,” but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the hordes of people jamming the sidewalks. With cameras glued to their faces (and earbuds blocking any outside noises), the gawkers are oblivious to those of us who live here. We edge around the posed photo-ops, trying to avoid being part of anyone’s ‘what I did on my summer vacation.’ We cross streets to avoid being sucked into the massive amoeba-like student groups. We plan our route so that we pass the minimal number of historic sites possible on the way to and from our destinations.

It never occurred to me, when we chose to live in this part of town, that the historic district also meant the tourist district. I just liked it because it’s vibrant with lots of shops and restaurants and many old warehouses renovated into condos. It’s within walking distant of the Reading Terminal Market and a couple of decent grocery stores. The subway is convenient to get to more far-flung parts of town. From my front door, I can walk in four directions and find interesting things to see in safe neighborhoods. Now, though, as summer begins, I’m beginning to rethink my decision.

Once upon a very long time ago, I visited Philadelphia with my parents. I saw Independence Hall and felt the crack in the Liberty Bell. I had lox and bagels at the Famous Fourth Street Delicatessen. I liked the city then, though it was much grittier than it is now. That vibe I mentioned earlier? I could feel it, then, too, even as a teenager. Maybe that’s what drew me back here all these years later. Maybe Philadelphia has been calling to me all along. It’s my place; I just didn’t know it until now. But the tourists are going to drive me crazy!

So, what am I going to do about it? I’m not going to beat them, that’s for sure. Trust me, there are waaay too many of them to battle. Instead, I’ve decided I’m going to join them. I’m going to take back a piece of my new city for me. I will gawk and stare and appreciate all the historic landmarks alongside the most dedicated tourist. Betsy Ross and Benjamin Franklin, look out: here I come.

Hey, what are you doing this summer?

Cooking from Memory

Victoria Chancellor's post a few days ago made me think of this funny little recipe book I have from 1973: Community Church Women Present—A COLLECTION OF FAVORITE RECIPES. It was put together as a fund raiser for the local church and cost all of a dollar-fifty. At the time, I’m sure it was a pretty penny to pay for these homey recipes. Now, this chance to travel back in time, food-wise, is invaluable.

The cookbook—bound at the top with a two-hole clip and covered with vinyl wallpaper—begins with a story written by Rafe Gibbs in 1953. I’ve never heard of the author. The piece has no title. I have no idea why it’s included since it doesn’t have a thing to do with cooking or food. It’s a summary of the life of one Dick Ferrell, one time blacksmith and up-and-coming prize-fighter. He left the fight circuit in 1914 to become a preacher, ministering to the lumberjacks in Northern Idaho for forty years. Someone must have liked it enough to type it up and insert it in the front of the book. I could probably find out why, but I’ve always been content to let the mystery lie. Don’t you think some things are better left that way, rather than be sullied by some prosaic explanation?

A variety of recipes follow this charming yarn. Some are my favorites: Chocolate Peppermint Creams, Three-Bean Salad, Dilly Casserole Bread. Others, I seldom use or have never even tried: Tater-Tot Casserole, Cucumber-Cream Salad, Celery Casserole Delight. There are at least five versions of meat loaf (including my mother’s which is baked with barbeque sauce and still my ‘gold standard’). Some of these dishes I remember from community potluck dinners or a meal at a school-friend’s home. I suspect a lot of them are still being made, passed down the generations, like mom’s meatloaf. The comfort food of our childhood.

Back at Christmas-time, when I was searching for the sugar cookie recipe that I always use, this recipe in particular caught my eye:

A Happy Home Recipe

4 cups love

2 cups loyalty

3 cups forgiveness

1 cup friendship

5 spoons hope

2 spoons tenderness

4 quarts faith

1 barrel laughter

Take love and loyalty, mix it together with faith. Blend in tenderness and forgiveness. Add friendship and hope, sprinkle abundantly with laughter. Bake it with sunshine. Serve daily with generous helpings

No one gets credit for this recipe, not like the others by Cheryl Gerdts or Grace Rule or Diane Lowry or other church ladies. Sandwiched between Amber Skillet Dinner and Golden Shrimp Puff, it is just another recipe. A good one, though. Worth whipping up and serving around on a regular basis. Comfort food of another kind, but just as nourishing.

Oh, and those sugar cookies? Here’s that recipe:

Best Ever Sugar Cookies by Finetta Smith

1 cup powdered sugar

1 cup white sugar

1 cup butter

1 cup vegetable oil

2 eggs, beaten

1 tsp vanilla

4 ½ cups flour

1 tsp cream of tartar

1 tsp baking soda

Cream together butter and sugars. Beat in eggs, oil and vanilla. Sift flour together with baking soda and cream of tartar; stir into mixture until well blended. Refrigerate for one hour, then roll dough into balls and dip in cinnamon sugar. Flatten with a glass. Bake at 350 until lightly golden-brown. [Or you can use a cookie press. I load the press up, make a pan of cookies, then put the still-partially-filled press in a zip-lock and stick it back in the refrigerator until I want another fresh batch of cookies.]

Try them and let me know how they taste.

Springing Up All Over

Do you love flowers? I do. This time of the year is bliss, especially after such a long, snowy winter. The bloom in Philadelphia has begun: daffodils, tulips, crocus, hyacinth. Even the trees are getting into the act as the cherry blossoms begin to cast a cotton-candy-pink haze over the neighborhood. Soon there will be little wind-blown eddies of delicate petals all over the sidewalk, drifting out into the street.

I recently went to the Philadelphia Flower Show. This year’s theme was 'Passport to the World' and there were some truly amazing displays. I saw a hot-air balloon completely covered in flowers. A giraffe stretched its long orange-orchid-bedecked neck over the festivities. There was an elephant, too! The scents were exquisite, sometimes almost overpowering. A convention hall full of flowers is pretty potent. The skill and artistry of the floral designers was delicious.

All this bounty of color and beauty sparked a discussion among my friends. We debated various favorite flowers. (Mine: tulips and grape hyacinth. I love how succulent they look and the vibrant colors.) Then we got talking about cut flowers. Do you send them? I used to send my husband flowers after a deal had gone well, or if I knew he’d had a particularly bad week. The secretaries in his office loved it. Now he works from home, so I can buy flowers that brighten both our days. I used to send my mother sheaves of spring flowers on May Day. Now she wants blooming plants and thinks cut flowers are a waste. I bow to her wishes; my goal is to bring color into her life, not argue about thrift.

I buy cut flowers for myself, especially in the spring. When it’s dreary, I can’t resist the cheerful colors. I like to bring flowers to hostesses, along with a bottle of wine, when we dine out. Often, I’m struck by how surprised and delighted people are to receive flowers. I wonder if flower-giving has fallen out of fashion. Still, I love to get them. Why shouldn’t I give them, too?

A young friend of mine asked me what he should get his mother for Mother’s Day. I said: flowers. He argued, saying it was lame, cliché, too impersonal, and besides, they die. A week later, I had dinner with this mother and she spent thirty minutes telling me about the flowers her son had given her—he had taken my advice after all. How she had found them waiting for her in the morning with a card. How lovely the colors were. How good they made the house smell. How some of the flowers had wilted quicker than others, so she got a different vase and rearranged the remaining blooms for a different effect. There was absolutely nothing ‘lame’ in her joy and I relayed the story to my young friend. He conceded that he had learned a lesson and thanked me.

To me, flowers show appreciation, love, affection, regret. Heartfelt, simple and just plain pretty.

What about you? Do you give flowers? How often do you get them? Is it for a special occasion or ‘just because?’ Do you prefer cut flowers or blooming plants? Bouquets or sheaves of flowers you can arrange yourself?

Thinking about love and flowers—Lisa

Wow!

I just got news that I have to share: An Unexpected Father, my April release, was chosen as one of Romantic Times Book Reviews ‘Top Picks’. They gave it four and a half stars, too! I am stunned and honored.

For me, writing a book and sending it out for publication feels a little like sending my children off to school. How are they going to do? Will the other kids like them? Will they behave? Will anyone understand the effort I put in to raising them right? I know that you have to just send it off and hope for the best, but it’s difficult mothering such an unruly child. When a review and kudos like this come along, they bring grateful tears to my eyes.

When I was a teenager, my dad came home one night from work and hugged me. Just out of the blue. Now, my dad’s not really a demonstrative guy. I’d never had any doubt that he loved me, but hugs were for special occasions: birthdays, injuries, good report cards. If you’d been away on a trip—not just a weekend sleepover—yeah, a hug was due. He was glad to see me and I was glad to see him. But his return home from just another day at the office was not a ‘huggable’ event. A kiss from my mom was enough of a greeting for him.

On this particular evening, as far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything spectacular. I was a teenager; no one expected spectacular from me. Getting through those teen years was sometimes all anyone hoped for really, me included. Mostly, I think I was a relatively easy kid to raise—especially after my older brother. My parents didn’t pull their hair out too much over my moodiness, I paid attention in school, I was popular enough. You know, normal. So, I had no idea why my dad hugged me. When I asked, I was embarrassed by his answer. In a good way, though.

I had just spent the weekend with a close friend and gone out on a hike with her family. I didn’t know it, but my dad, a forester, was managing a timber sale with my friend’s father. At work that day, this father asked my dad if I was his daughter. After my dad admitted it was so, the guy shook my dad’s hand and congratulated him on having a good kid. He was impressed because I had picked up some trash on our hike and carried it back out of the woods.

This wasn’t a special thing to me; it was the way I had been raised. But it sure was to my dad. He got to find out—from a complete stranger—that all the hard work of being a parent had paid off. I feel that way about my book. The characters I loved writing went out into the world and did something good. It’s a small thing, like picking up a piece of trash, but they made me proud.

Of course, after I read the review, I hugged them, too.

Heartland

I just returned from a trip in Idaho. I invited several friends to come ski at a couple of small resorts near my parents’ home in that corner of the world. We all had a great time. After the ski trip, I stayed and spent a few extra days with my folks. My mom said it was “quality time,” but she kept me plenty busy doing little jobs for her. We laid out the front of a quilt to be raffled for the 50^th class reunion at the local high school and I did some simple line-drawings for the mascot. My dad had me edit an article he’d written for the newspaper regarding the new Legion Hall. I did a little tech-support on the computer for them (a first for me), a little electrical work (okay, it was reconnecting loose wires, but still), a little cleaning and a lot of cooking. It was easy and satisfying work, since most of her—and my father’s—projects involve their community.

My folks are very active in their town. My dad is the Commander of the American Legion there. His latest project was organizing a war memorial for local soldiers. He convinced the Army to lend them a Howitzer for the centerpiece. (I’m not sure what happens if they decide to take it back, but that doesn’t seem to bother my dad.) He is also active in the local Boy Scout troop, as he has been since my brother was old enough to don the uniform. My mother runs a charity that provides Christmas gifts to needy families. She started it over twenty years ago and last year, it helped over 300 children. The program coordinates with the local food bank, several churches and community groups to provide gifts, food and the small necessities to make Christmas merry. It’s a generous, heart-warming enterprise. My parents’ initiative and involvement have sparked others to participate and spread that neighborliness around. Between them, I think they know everyone in town.

They live quite a bit west of the true U.S. “Heartland” but that doesn’t seem to make much difference. Pancake breakfasts, charity raffles, a Main Street with no stoplight, the Elk’s Lodge: it’s all there and more. It is the best, and sometimes the worst—let’s not be glib—of community life. Neighbors help neighbors when they can and, more than a little, gossip about the situation while they lend a hand. That winding vine of chitchat is often the way word of triumph travels. I can’t say there isn’t back-biting, but when the news is tragic, the help flows even faster.

As I was flying eastward yesterday, it occurred to me that I live in the Heartland, too. For all its hustle, bustle and 1.5 million inhabitants, Philadelphia has a heart as big and true as Dunnell, Minnesota, Adair, Oklahoma or Bucklin, Missouri. In some sense, we all live in the Heartland of this country. That’s why we write—and read—stories set in these communities, both small and large. The heart is what matters and the larger it is on the inside, the better it makes the community on the outside.

So, hello from my Heartland to yours. Hey! Be sure to buy a ticket for the local quilt raffle. You can’t win if you don’t get involved.

Thanks

My mother has a tradition at Thanksgiving. We all hold hands, the meal spread before us on the table, and tell everyone assembled what we’re thankful for this year. When I was a kid, this made me cringe. First, the tradition made sure everyone was staring at me—horrifying when I was a self-conscious teenager. Second, what the heck was I going to say? I would obsess for days ahead of time to come up with the perfect short, thoughtful phrase. Inevitably, I would flub it and a slight titter (or out-right guffaw from my brother) would circle the table. Eventually, as I matured, I learned to play to the crowd, keep it simple and the moments eased on by.

These days, it’s so easy to focus on the worst. Crisis after crisis hits the headlines and pops out of every mouth, TV, blog or tweet. The stories are frightening and devastating. Every-day life is full of small calamities, too: the car breaks down, the toilet backs up, the cat throws up on the new sofa, bad hair, really bad dust-bunnies. Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing to be grateful for. Then Thanksgiving arrives and I remember my mother’s tradition. I spend a few days thinking about all the great things in my life and I re-focus on what’s important: family, love, laughter.

This Thanksgiving, I won’t be sharing a meal with my family, but maybe that’s a good thing. The turkey would need a sweater to keep from catching a chill while I list all the things I’m thankful for this year. I have a wonderful husband. I have terrific friends, some of whom just helped us move. You have to be grateful for people who help you haul an eight-foot sofa up five flights of stairs. I get to write every day. I have romance readers who enjoy my stories. The list goes on and on.

Now I’m going to pass this wonderful tradition on to you. Join hands, everyone. What are you thankful for this year?

Boo!

Do you get nervous? I do. Public speaking, flying, and being in a gale on my sailboat: all moments when my pulse speeds up. Lucky for me, I don’t have too many outward signs of my inward trepidation. To an innocent bystander, I can seem perfectly calm, cool and collected. Inside, an 8.2 earthquake shakes me. And my hands get cold. Really cold. It takes about an hour for them to warm up after the episode of nerves has passed.

I spent the weekend at the New Jersey Romance Writers Convention, “Put Your Heart in a Book,” and my nerves were right there with me. You see, talking about my writing makes me nervous, too. It is immensely important to me. It’s part of who I am. I am afraid that when I talk to others about my writing, especially agents and publishers, I am not doing justice to my written words. My audience will dismiss what I say, because I’m not saying what I ought. Have you ever had someone excitedly describe the plot of a book or a movie you haven’t read or seen? How long did it take before your eyes glazed over? I’m afraid that’s exactly what happens to anyone who hears me talk about my most cherished characters and stories.

At any convention, I try to meet as many people as I can. I ask a lot of questions. I am amazed by what others are doing, how prolific and creative they all are. Invariably, the people I meet ask me questions, too. My nervousness kicks in, but I answer as clearly as I can. I want them to understand what I’m writing, what I’m thinking and the delight I find in the writing process.

So, in a lot of these conversations, my hands go vampire cold while the rest of my body stays warmly mortal. I know when I say goodbye and shake that person’s hand, she’s going to shiver and wonder if she’s been unwittingly discussing romance with the undead. But that’s okay. I’m glad I’m having an attack of nerves. Because if my stories matter so much to me, then maybe—just maybe, at least when I write—I can make them that important to my reader.

Déjà vu

Last Friday I moved my sailboat into a small marina in Annapolis, Maryland. It’s one of a dozen or more marinas that crowd the shores of Back Creek. When you step off the docks, you are in the Eastport neighborhood—known locally as the Maritime Republic of Eastport. A less-touristy area than Annapolis proper, Eastport has none of the bustle that accompanies the capitol of a state. If you didn’t know the State House was just a short walk across the Spa Creek bridge, you’d never guess it. The streets are lined with small charming houses. Trees arch out to form a canopy of green overhead. From around every corner you catch a glimpse of water and, of course, boats.

Walking out of the marina parking lot to look around, you find the Leeward coffee shop two blocks to the east. About a half-block west is Davis’s Tavern, a former mercantile store in the 1930’s, converted to a local watering hole. Really, this is about as perfect as it gets for a writer: libations for either end of the day all within walking distance.

The evening after we tied up, we decided to go see what was happening at the tavern, see what the locals do for fun after the long work-week. To our surprise, Davis’s was crowded. Outside, people stood in clusters under the green awnings or sat at the tables. Inside, the barstools were full. We took a table nearby and overheard several lies . . . I mean sea stories being told. Most of the patrons had houses nearby, or boats at the marinas across the street, or both. It was a happy, convivial atmosphere that made you want to stay and mingle.

That’s when my first attack of déjà vu hit: I had been there before. No, I don’t mean that I had ever been in Davis’s Tavern. Before that evening, I didn’t even know it existed. But there was a feel to the place that was very familiar, except I couldn’t figure out the connection. The next morning, writing away on my latest book, I realize that Davis’s shared some striking resemblances to the bar I had created for my characters. My bar—The Laughing Gull—is in an old, historic building on the waterfront. You can see boats from its windows. The vibe I get from the bar I created is a lot like the real one: warm, welcoming and boisterous.

A few days later we stopped into the tavern again. It wasn’t so busy on a weeknight, so we pulled up a stool. As I was sipping my wine, a man walked up to the bar next to me, smiled and ordered a drink. He had a thick accent that sounded Italian. After the bartender served him, he took his beer outside to a table. Through the windows, I could see him sit down with several other older men who all seemed to be talking at once and having a great time. Forgetting my manners, I started to stare. He looked very like my image of Antonio Berzani, patriarch of the Berzani clan and father to my hero, Ian. Did he have an Italian accent? Yes. Did he talk with his hands? Yes. Was he tall, have silver hair and dark eyes with a twinkle lurking in their depths? Yes, yes, yes.

Whoa.

Did one of my characters just come to life? And was he in a bar that came out of my imagination? The universe isn’t supposed to work that way, but what if this is one of those mysterious anomalies? What I love most of all about this “déjà vu” experience (I’m sure there’s a better psychological term for experiencing something you imagined beforehand) is that it shows I’ve successfully translated my experiences on the Chesapeake Bay extracted from a myriad of small communities—Chestertown, Deltaville, Oxford, Easton—into a “real” fictional place, somewhere my characters really would live, laugh and love.

So far, none of my other characters has made an appearance at Davis’s or around the neighborhood, but I’m not giving up. Any day, I expect to see Kate and Patrick with their baby, strolling along Chester Avenue, or Ian lugging his tool box into a boatyard, or Mimi strumming her guitar and singing at a local hangout. I believe that there’s a thin spot in the fabric of the universe somewhere around here and through it, my stories are entering this reality.

How cool would that be?

Did any of you catch the interview with Nora Roberts on NPR, Saturday, July 18^th? Those of you at the RWA Conference in DC probably missed it, unless you saw it in person. I was sailing down the Patapsco, approaching Bodkin Point that morning. It was a beautiful day: sunny, breezy, not too hot (so unusual for the Chesapeake this time of year). I listened avidly, thrilled that our convention was getting national attention! Afterward, I wasn’t so excited. In fact, I have to admit the spot bugged me. Not Nora’s interview; she was direct and professional. She’s a good spokesperson for romance writing. But Scott Simon’s barely concealed snicker was quite irritating. He seemed to think the whole thing was a big joke. Most irritating, he thought we would laugh with him. When he read the opening lines of a romance he had attempted to write—and pitch to an editor—I cringed. It was as bad as it could get: sappy, cliché and completely without heart. He tried to save himself by admitting that he realized he had written a parody, but I didn’t buy it. There was too much “of-course-I’m-better-than-this” in his voice. I got the impression that Nora wanted to smack him.

I came away after listening feeling a little like Rodney Dangerfield: when are we going to get some respect, anyway? There is consolation. Remember how well we’re doing as an industry? Sales of print romances are up and digital is exploding with the advent of all the new e-book readers. I heard one author at conference say that every time a new version of Kindle releases, her back-list sales spike. In this time of recession, people are turning to romance as a way to escape from the bad news that seems lurk around every bend. Romance brings hope, faith, passion, happiness into our lives. And love, most important of all. I think that if readers are buying our books, that’s all the respect we need.

Maybe that’s all we’ll get.

But—on the assumption that you meant well—thanks, Scott Simon. You brought our convention and our writers into the national spotlight for a brief moment. You also tried to make it personal by attempting to put yourself in our shoes. Now, please, go out and read a romance. Be entertained and charmed and take the experience seriously. Respect the writing and the genre. There are lots of romance stories out there to choose from: passionate, sweet, suspenseful, inspirational, fantastic, some just downright bizarre. They all offer one sure thing that life so seldom does: a little love. Just what our world needs now.

The Real World

Good characters make the setting real. The reverse is true, too. At writing’s finest, both happen at the same time; a seamless join that carries the story forward. I have to admit that choosing a setting—city or country? seaside or mountains?—is the about last thing I consider when I’m plotting a book. I deal with the main characters first. I give them personalities, then see how they act in juxtaposition to each other. From there, I determine what they do for a living. Last, I put them in a place that fits those parameters. For me, characters are most important because they’re going to make my setting real. Their quirks and foibles, strengths and weaknesses all add up to a story where I hope my readers can lose themselves: Mars or Manhattan, Mt. Washington or Wichita.

I like to use where the characters encounter one another as a way of showing who they are—and who they could become. In Man of the Year, Samantha is thrown into a whole new ballgame when she first encounters Jarrett in a steamy locker-room. He is immediately taken by how poised she is as the only woman in such a blatantly masculine realm. Kate in Baby on Board is horrified to find herself on a boat leaving the dock. Never mind that Patrick, a professional skipper, is at the helm. Patrick is equally horrified to learn she can’t swim and is terrified of the water. The conflict between them is heightened by this setting and the way they both act and react. Hopefully, their reality—being alive in the place—makes the setting more real.

What my characters do for a living is also part of the setting. Kate in Baby on Board is a glass-blower. The fire she works with clashes directly with the water that floats Patrick’s world of yacht-racing. A lot of steam is generated between them which often obscures the love they feel for one another. The working title of that book became Fire and Water, after the setting made itself clear. In my latest book—due out April 2010—Ian’s work as a shipwright is a perfect example of his quiet, methodical attention to detail: he makes the sawdust fly and that makes the boatyard come alive.

So, for me, characters make the setting. The more real I can make them, the more real the world they inhabit becomes. Do you want to come sailing on the Chesapeake Bay, or blow a glob of molten glass into a perfect goblet in Kate’s studio? My characters will lead the way. If I and they do their job, it’ll be just like you were there.

Cheers,

Lisa