New Painting

Once or twice a year (depending on how long/busy our vacations are), my husband does a watercolor. This year he took two weeks off to relax and spend time with the kids and me. And paint a watercolor. And just for the record, artists are every bit as obsessed and grumpy about their work as writers are. (It's definitely different being on the other side. Now I'm the one rolling my eyes when I hear, "It's horrible. I wish I could start over." Etc.)

Here are some photos. Be warned the quality of my camera is very bad. The painting itself has much deeper colors and the images are much sharper. But here's Calvin's latest painting. It's from our trip to France and it's me visiting the Queen's Hamlet at Versailles.

  

Here is the sketch before the painting begins.

  

Half painted. The color in this photo is more accurate to the painting.

     

Completed. But awaiting a frame.

Deja Vu Blogfest

The Deja Vu Blogfest (thanks to D.L. Hammons for organizing and planning the fest) is an opportunity to view some of the best blog posts of the past year that you may have missed. So after my post, please click on some of the links listed to read some great posts.

As I thought about what posts I've done over the past year, I decided to re-share an October post, "The Married Man's Guide to  Women's Shoes." I hope you enjoy it.

The other Sunday morning, I was late. So I asked my husband to grab my black pumps. He came back with black sandals. I said, “No. Black pumps. Those are heeled sandals.” He went back to the closet and came back with another pair of shoes. I sighed. “Sweetie, those are mules. I need pumps.” Eventually, I found the pumps.

It occurred to me that if a man doesn’t even know what a shoe is called, then there is a whole world of shoe communication that he does not understand. So I’ve written a husband’s definitive (short) guide to women’s shoe types and what they mean. Here it is.

Pumps. A woman wears these with a suit. They have a heel and enclose most of the foot. (Though there are open-toed and sling-back versions, which have nuances of meaning. But that is beyond the scope of this quick reference guide.) When I wear them it means, I can pump my own gas, but if you want to do it that would be great because I don’t like smelling like gasoline.

Sandals. Strappy shoes that expose the toes. There are two main types.

   One, the heeled party type. These mean I plan to have fun and am not opposed to drinking something with bubbles.

   Two, the flat type. These mean Take Me To the Beach. Now.

Mules. Something you side your foot into. As in, I’m as tired as a pack-worn mule and can’t be bothered with fasteners. You should probably pour me a double strength espresso with a twist of lemon.

            N.B. If they are Birkenstocks, it means I’m over forty and I’ve gone through a granola phase.

 This should be nipped in the bud if it threatens to come back. Seriously, do you remember the tofu phase?

Kitten heels. Playful shoes with a tiny, thin heel. They mean I’m feeling girly and playful as a kitten. (Think Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million.) They also mean, after the kids are in bed, I would totally be open to playing hide and seek with Nerf dart guns in the dark.

Sneakers. I can pump iron. I can run like the wind. Okay, maybe not. But I can

beat myself shadow boxing. And just so you know, it means we’re eating healthy tonight.

Stilettos. The name obviously comes from a type of spy knife. Think tall, thin high heel that could be used to stab someone. You think this means “sexy.” You are wrong. This shoe means I-am-feeling-so-confident-that-I-don’t-care-that-these-these-things-are-going-to-give-me-back-spasms-later-today. These shoes mean you will need to find a bottle of Aleve and a tube of muscle pain cream.

Slippers with wool socks. I need a nap, an intravenous drip of a caffeinated beverage, and/or a break from the children. Afterwards, a long, hot bubble bath.

Hopefully, this clears everything up.

Ladies, did I miss any?

Why I Wear a Ratty Cardigan

My house has zero storage space. It was built in the twenties when people had two sets of clothing. Work clothes and Sunday clothes. What else did you need?

Now it’s pushing the twenties again and we have very different ideas of necessary clothes. But that need hasn’t changed the closet space. So I try to weed through my clothes at least twice a year. Last spring when I was packing away my winter clothes, I put a ratty, nearly buttonless cardigan on a throwaway pile. My 18 year old son saw it.

“You aren’t throwing that out,” he said. It was a statement not a question. It turns out that the very sight of that cardigan comforts him. I wore it a lot when he was little (we were really poor and I couldn’t afford one—this one had been a gift) and spent hours rocking him. He was pretty severely autistic and when the suffering was at its worst, I’d rock and hold him.

So he handed the cardigan back to me and asked me to wear it more often. My heart melted (of course). And I promised to wear it. So if you see me wearing a raveling, late-eighties-styled cardigan that only has one button remaining, you’ll know why. I love my son.

Add caption

Ten Worst Things About Having a Cold

 

Okay, it’s fall and I’ve got my first cold. This means, one, my mind is mush and I can’t think of a single thing to blog about, except, you know, my cold. And two—I can’t remember what two was.

In any case, on to the ten worst things about having a cold.

1. The House. When I am sick, I switch to minimal mode. Actually, I don’t. I still do the laundry, cooking, and ironing. (Yes, I do the ironing—do you know what the stack looks like if I skip a week?!) On the other hand, I get phone calls from my kids saying, “Hey, Mom, you are resting, right? Tell me you’re resting.” I love phone calls from my kids.

2. The Vaporizer. I cart mine around with me all day and it hisses, spits, and blows camphor steam in my face. On the other hand, I’m telling myself that it’s a medicated facial. My skin had better look radiant when this cold is over.

3.  Cold Medicine. This worst thing about this is that I can’t take it. I have a “sensitivity” to decongestant, which is another way of saying that if I take cold medicine my heart will beat so fast I get to visit ER. On the other hand, the alternative to cold medicine is a Hot Toddy—bourbon with lemon, honey, and hot water. At least if you have a nasty cold, you’re happy.

4. Snot. Okay, I don’t need to explain why this is heinous. On the other hand, you don’t notice if your allergies are bad.

5.  Sneezing. This is not a problem you want to have if you’ve given birth to four large babies. I will not explain this. And there is no “on the other hand.”

6. No Sense of Taste. This means the very cool pork butt roasted with chipotles and chocolate will taste like dirt. On the other hand, the tea that got left out in the sun and went bad—yeah, you won’t even know it’s spoiled when you drink it.

7. Focus. The ability to concentrate and edit is totally shot. On the other hand, Netflix!

8. A Frightening Reflection in the Mirror. The bathroom mirror reflects back an image that makes you look the love-child of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Grendel's mother. On the other hand, you don’t care.

9.  Sleep. When I’m sick, I can’t sleep. So I ponder—my novels, the state of the world, the health of the dog, etc. On the other hand, I’m getting lots of practice trying not to worry.

10. Yeah, I can’t think of a tenth one. So this will have to do. Besides my vaporizer is seriously spitting—it’s actually blowing out rings of stream. I’d watch in fascination, but I think I put too much salt in the water and it may blow a household circuit. Yeah, that’s happened before.

The Married Man's Guide to Women's Shoes and What They Mean

This sling-back pump is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Olivier Luma.

The other Sunday morning, I was late. So I asked my husband to grab my black pumps. He came back with black sandals. I said, “No. Black pumps. Those are heeled sandals.” He went back to the closet and came back with another pair of shoes. I sighed. “Sweetie, those are mules. I need pumps.” Eventually, I found the pumps.

It occurred to me that if a man doesn’t even know what a shoe is called, then there is a whole world of shoe communication that he does not understand. So I’ve written a husband’s definitive (short) guide to women’s shoe types and what they mean. Here it is.

Pumps. A woman wears these with a suit. They have a heel and enclose most of the foot. (Though there are open-toed and sling-back versions, which have nuances of meaning. But that is beyond the scope of this quick reference guide.) When I wear them it means, I can pump my own gas, but if you want to do it that would be great because I don’t like smelling like gasoline.

Sandals. Strappy shoes that expose the toes. There are two main types.

   One, the heeled party type. These mean I plan to have fun and am not opposed to drinking something with bubbles.

   Two, the flat type. These mean Take Me To the Beach. Now.

Mules. Something you side your foot into. As in, I’m as tired as a pack-worn mule and can’t be bothered with fasteners. You should probably pour me a double strength espresso with a twist of lemon.

            N.B. If they are Birkenstocks, it means I’m over forty and I’ve gone through a granola phase.

 This should be nipped in the bud if it threatens to come back. Seriously, do you remember the tofu phase?

Kitten heels. Playful shoes with a tiny, thin heel. They mean I’m feeling girly and playful as a kitten. (Think Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million.) They also mean, after the kids are in bed, I would totally be open to playing hide and seek with Nerf dart guns in the dark.

Sneakers. I can pump iron. I can run like the wind. Okay, maybe not. But I can

beat myself shadow boxing. And just so you know, it means we’re eating healthy tonight.

Stilettos. The name obviously comes from a type of spy knife. Think tall, thin high heel that could be used to stab someone. You think this means “sexy.” You are wrong. This shoe means I-am-feeling-so-confident-that-I-don’t-care-that-these-these-things-are-going-to-give-me-back-spasms-later-today. These shoes mean you will need to find a bottle of Aleve and a tube of muscle pain cream.

Slippers with wool socks. I need a nap, an intravenous drip of a caffeinated beverage, and/or a break from the children. Afterwards, a long, hot bubble bath.

Hopefully, this clears everything up.

Ladies, did I miss any?

Grammar Snobs Unite

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’m looking for part-time, from-home work. Much easier said than done.

I’ve had a good nibble, and I’m waiting to see whether the big fish bites. In the meantime, I keep applying. I heard back from another company the other day. The email told me I was being considered for a position. They explained I’d need to pass two tests first. (This is pretty standard.) I continued reading the email. It went on to tell me how much they pay per hour. (Twelve year old babysitters make more. Not a joke. I recently got an email looking for a reputable teenage babysitter, so I know how much they make.) The company’s email went on to tell me that if I had a PhD, I could make $2 more per hour—the wage someone was willing to pay a babysitter.

The email ended by saying I needed to hurry because the tests were due on June 11 and they were eager to hire for fall of 2012.

Um, yeah. A friend suggested that the email was the real test and I ought to correct it and send it back.

But the whole thing got me to thinking. Honestly, people don’t seem to care much about written communication anymore. Not a day goes by where I don’t see an error in a sign, newspaper, or book. (There’s an interstate sign in my city that drives me crazy because it has an abbreviation error. And don’t even get me started on mail that arrives addressed to the “Keller’s.” Really? Singular possessive?!)  I’m beginning to feel the urge to start carrying a red Sharpie on a string around my neck. The problem is I don’t think I’ll be able to limit myself to correcting only mail, newspapers, and books. Pretty soon, you’re going to read that Connie Keller was arrested for propping a twenty foot ladder in a lane of traffic on Interstate 24 so she could correct a sign. No doubt, all my grammar Nazi friends will rally to support me. It might not be a big group. But our signs will all be spelled correctly.

What I'm Up To, Reading and Trying to Avoid Chewing Glass

What I’ve Read.

I just finished an excellent thriller for Blogging for Books. (Review here) It was The Catch by Taylor Stevens. I’m not sure what was more interesting the novel, set in Djibouti and Kenya with pirates et al., or the author’s actual life (she was born into the horrible Children of God cult and didn’t escape until she was in her twenties.)

My husband and I are doing a read aloud. We did this almost every day/night with the kids when they were young—we got through a ton of books. Everything from Chronicles of Narnia to Harry Potter to LOTR. Matt listened to LOTR while he was still in a highchair. (Don't roll your eyes. He loved it.) I used to make hot chocolate and give the kids coloring pages with colored pencils (none of the kids liked crayons). In any case, my husband and I were missing those times. So I bought a copy of Daniel Silva’s The Heist (a spy thriller) and now we take turns reading aloud before we go to sleep at night. It’s been especially fun as Cal and I love art—one reads and the other Googles the paintings mentioned in the book. Then, I say, “Cool, we saw that Caravaggio at the Met!”

What I’m Writing.

I’m editing my upmarket women’s fiction. It’s set in the South in the late 1940s. One of the things I’ve done this week is tune up the details of a mansion mentioned in the novel—I’ve been drooling over photos of the Biltmore. I knew I’d find a use for the pictorial guide we bought when we visited.

What I’m Doing.

Still applying for jobs. I should hear from one in particular in the next two weeks. I’m really hoping for that one, especially after I’ve seen what else is available. Some jobs that I’m qualified for…well, let’s just say I’d rather chew glass. But hey, a job is a job, so I’ll take what I can get.

Summer Odds and Ends

Today is busy (and yesterday too). So I don't have time for a full post. But here are some highlights (and lowlights) of the week and some photos from throughout the summer.

1. As you know, I'm looking for a job. But things are NOT what they were like twenty-four years ago. Now everything is done on computers. So your resume and cover letter must "echo" the requirements of the job. That way the computer imp will reward your hard work and forward your resume package to a real person at human resources. One morning this week, I spent three and one half hours perfecting my resume, cover letter, and filling in all the random information this particular company wanted. Finally, after it was all done and uploaded, I noticed that I'd misspelled the company's name on my cover letter. UGH! A whole morning down the drain. (At least, I got part of a blog post out of it. :)

2. My husband's had health problems that started back in February. The doctors are monitoring a couple different organs for cancer. Today, he's going for a biopsy.

3. Three day weekends never used to mean much to me because my husband works Saturday and Sunday and Monday is his normal day off. But now three day weekends mean my kids might be coming home--and they are--we're celebrating Matthew's 18th birthday. So in between re-writing resumes and editing, I've been baking and cleaning house.

Here are some photos.

Matt graduated from high school.

Matt played Lord Berowne in Love's Labour's Lost

Thanksgiving in the summer.
 Invite friends and bake the turkey that was on sale after Christmas.

Matt's idea of fun is to jump out from behind a dark corner dressed like a ghoul and yell, "Boo!" Is it any wonder I have nightmares?

Chattanooga really is a romantic city.

What's Up Monday

Hopefully, I soon will have time to write blog posts. But in the meantime, here’s another update.

What I’m Doing

Surviving the heat. And wishing for this.

 I'm still applying for jobs. I’d heard the job situation was tough, but nothing is as demoralizing as applying for a job that already has 516 applicants. Yep. For one job.

And I’m getting used to my new fall schedule. Instead of teaching my kids, my baby is getting settled into college, though he’s still living at home (saving lots of housing money). It's one of the wonderful perks of living only a few miles from a major university. 

Finally, I’m beta reading the sequel to Alchemy by Sheena Boekweg, Melanie Crouse and Sabrina West.

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What I’m Reading

I’m nearly done with A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra. I can’t believe how long it’s taken me to finish it. The book is lovely, but it’s hard for a book to compete against the demands of summer. I’m also reading Whistlin’ Dixie in a Nor-Easter by Lisa Patton. Having lived in New England and the South, I couldn’t resist the story of a Memphis woman moving to Vermont. I’m lovin’ it. 

Next book, Windthrow by A. B. Keuser.

What I’m Writing

I just finished a big first edit of Reap the Whirlwind. It’s an upmarket women’s fiction. And my word count went from 46,385 to 72,000. Phew! And I should get another 5k after the next revision. I’m one of those crazy people who underwrites. And it’s a scary thing to finish a rough draft and realize, “Gee, I’ve only got about half the word count necessary for my genre.” Gulp.

Next up, editing Whirlwind, part two.

What's Up Friday

This summer I’m not having much time to blog. So here’s another quick round of What’s Up Friday.

What I’m Doing

I finished my resume, and I’ve begun applying for jobs. (If you need a technical writer or a subject indexer, let me know.)

We’re in the midst of a stay-cation, mostly doing small things and resting. Yesterday morning, my husband and I canoed on the Tennessee River. In the evening, we drove to Knoxville and saw a Shakespeare on the Square’s production of Titus Andronicus. Very dark, reminiscent of a Greek tragedy. My summary—what would happen if you took a bunch of evil people and let them do whatever they wanted.

My husband rowing.

A photo of me at an island where we stopped for lunch. We were under a mulberry tree ripe with berries. I wanted to eat them. But Cal (probably remembering the scene from The Hunger Games) said I couldn't be 100% sure they were mulberries and he preferred not visiting ER. Turns out they weren't mulberries, but I'm pretty sure they were still edible.

             

 What I’m Reading

The Expats by Chris Pavone. After reading his book The Accident for Blogging for Books, I had to read his first book. It’s excellent, fast-paced treadmill reading. I’m also currently reading A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra. It’s beautiful novel set in Chechnya.

What I’m Writing

I’m nearly finished with a big edit of my upmarket women’s fiction. Five chapters left. The chapters are slow going because they are very underwritten—I grossly underwrite first drafts. For example, the first draft of this novel was only 46k words. I’ll probably hit 73k to 75k before this edit is done. And I’ll still be adding words in the next edit, fleshing out the scenes. 

What's Up Friday

What’s up Wednesday is a blog meme that I’ve been interested in doing for a while. But I haven’t quite gotten around to it. In the meantime here’s my What’s Up Friday.

What I’m Doing

Finishing a resume. I haven’t written one of these in two decades. Ugh. It’s interesting though—who knew there were fads in resume writing. I looked at resumes of technical writers (that’s what a lot of my past jobs have been) and I discovered some…creativity. One tech writer (currently with a very reputable laboratory) had a resume with a “cowboy theme.” In fact, one phrase mentioned “wrangling words and people.”

Why are there fads in resumes? Why can’t we just list our past jobs, list our degrees, and promise to work really hard? I mean, what else is there?

What I’m Writing

Editing. And more editing. I’m two-thirds of the way through an edit of my latest work-in-progress. The 2/3s mark is always writing/editing kryptonite for me. I’m just starting to get burned out, but not quite burned out enough to say, “What the heck.” So instead, I experience huge amounts of self-doubt. Do the themes work? Is the character development arc legitimate?  Just how underwritten is this puppy? Will anyone want to read it? And, am I EVER going to hit the necessary word count?

What I’m Reading

 

Earlier this week I got my next book to review for “Blogging for Books.” It’s A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra. I’m not far into it, but the words and phrases are so lovely. It’s like entering a spell cast by a muse’s fairy godmother.

The setting is interesting—Chechnya, the characters are sympathetic, and pacing is spot-on, so I just hope, hope, hope that the author can pull off a wonderful plot. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

If you missed my review of the last B4B book I read, click here.

DIY Ugly Fence Fix

Each time we moved, we've bought a fixer-upper house. And most of the things we've had to fix ourselves. But sometimes, what I don't like isn't "broken," it's just ugly.

One thing I hate is that a lot of the fencing around the house is chain link. So no privacy and super, super ugly. At first I planted climbing roses. They were beautiful. A wall of roses. And then, they got rose rosette disease (also known as "witches broom"), which is untreatable and kills the plants.

So once again I had an ugly fence. And because of the residual effects of the disease, I couldn't plant more roses. But I needed something that formed a wall. Something beautiful that would turn a minus into a plus.

And then it hit me. Grapes. But we'd tried grapes before in a different area of the yard. It was a disaster.So I researched grape growing on Google. And bought plants at WalMart (I amended the soil--which is clay and pebbles with top soil and composted steer manure, i.e., cheap fertilizer). And my husband built a double cordon system. It sounds fancy, but it's basically eight feet posts buried about 16 inches into the ground with two levels of heavy gauge wire strung between them.

Last year, we followed simple double cordon guidelines and cut off extraneous vines as the plants grew. This summer, we had grapes. It was a lovely surprise because we weren't supposed to get grapes until next year.

To the right are Concord grapes, which we've already eaten. Small (probably because they weren't supposed to bear this year) but delicious.

To the left are red flames grapes. I can't wait for them to ripen.

And there's nothing more wonderful than seeing a wall of grapes. So bless that ugly chain link fence, without it the grapes wouldn't have the free air circulation and heavy sunlight that they love.

BTW, If you read last week's post about the 52 year old towels, one Facebook commenter mentioned that she has towels bought in 1945 that are in great shape. Wow, that's 69 years!

52 Year Old Towels

Okay, this is a weird blog post. But it is what it is.

In the photo below, there are three towels.

Towel number one, the pink one is 52 years old. I know how old it is because my mother bought it before she was married—my parents have been married for 51 years. Please notice, it has no pulls, no frays, no stains and has retained its color despite 52 years of use. 

Towel number two. This one is six years old. It is mildly beige. It used to be a creamy light brown. It didn’t used to be “ruched” in the middle—that’s from uneven shrinkage. It is completely frayed and worn out.

Towel number three is three weeks old. It still has its original color. (Thank goodness.) But it already has pulls on the terrycloth--though you can't see them in this photo.

I want towels from 50 years ago. I’ll pay three times as much as they currently cost if they last 50 years. Heck, I’ll pay five times as much and still save money. (Though I would not buy pink.)

So, in spite of modern advancements and computerized weaving, they can’t make a towel like they did fifty years ago. Okay, maybe they can. They just don’t want to. Because I wouldn’t buy new towels if the old ones were still good. Pink or no pink. Which explains why I’m the owner of towels that are 52 years old. (And in case you’re wondering, the washcloths are in good shape too.)

DIY Front Door Repair

My latest summer DIY project was our front door. (Originally, I wanted it to be our kitchen floor, but there may be asbestos issues, i.e., $$$ and we're still paying for the new porch.)

Instead, the front door started falling apart, and it became our fix-it-quick-before-it's-ruined project. Our front door is as old as our house. Almost 100 or 80 years depending on who you believe--the records aren't accurate. And the panels of the door had begun separating. Getting a new door wasn't really much of an option since it would mean serious money because our door is not standard.

So my husband Cal and I enlisted my dad's help. And these. Cinching straps and really long screws--6 inches long. They used the cinching straps and brute strength to pull the door together. Then they drilled an opening for the screws (not the full 6 inches, of course) and countersunk it. Afterwards, they put in the screws to secure it. (Thanks, Dad!)

After the door was secure, we used fiberglass filler to patch cracks in the door. Cal sanded the fiberglass. That takes more muscle than I've got, and he can do it before I can find and plug in the sander.

Here's the door primed.

(Sorry, no photo of the door in its original state. I always forget to take "before" photos. Just imagine a door warped and separated and you'll get the idea.)

We filled the screw holes with dowels and then covered those with more fiberglass patch. Here's what the side of the door looked like before sanding, priming and painting.

Pink stuff is the fiberglass patch.

Then, I painted. Here's the finished product, which went from medium gray to red.

Now, back to editing. 

Charleston

For our anniversary, my husband and I went to Charleston for a short vacation. (It was so, so hot.)  But we drank lots of fluids and bought city-wide museum passes.

Interestingly, Charleston has more protected and preserved buildings than any city in the world, except Rome. Of course, the reason is that when the rest of the world was modernizing, Charleston was too poor. And by the time the city and its residents became flush again, tourism had become hot. So the city has some wonderful examples of architecture. 

Here are some examples. 

The French Huguenot church. Sadly, most of the churches weren't open to tourists.

The Aiken-Rhett house, the "backyard"of an in-town plantation. 

The Nathaniel Russell house. Very modest exterior belying a breath-taking interior, including a three story free-flying spiral staircase. Unfortunately, the residences don't allowed photos indoors. 

Middleton Place plantation. This live oak is 800 to 1000 years old.

Slave chapel at Middleton Place

Drayton Hall. This plantation had amazing docents.
They knew their history and they knew how to tell a story.

Drayton Hall. This plantation allowed some photography. The plantation house is unrestored, which means they haven't brought it back to its former glory. Instead, you see the house as it aged during the years--it tells a fascinating story. And it reminds you how transitory wealth, power and shiny status symbols are.

One last photo. In Charleston, even the alleys are picturesque.

So now we're home again and my creative tank is refilled. Time to write.

Will Write for Books

The other day, I got an email from Publisher’s Weekly and Crown Publishing (a division of Random House) asking me to join their “Blogging for Books” program. At first I was suspicious. There had to be a catch. A major publishing periodical and publishing house were willing to give me free books in exchange for an honest review? I scoured the program, looking for a catch. And I couldn’t find one. They really wanted to give me free books in exchange for honest reviews. What’s more, I could choose the books I wanted to read in either hardback or e-copy. And after I write and post my reviews on their site, I can request a new book. Pinch me, this is a dream come true.

After registering, I went through the list of books in genres that I’m interested in. I chose fiction in the young adult, literary, mystery, women’s, and suspense genres. My first book is The Accident by Chris Pavone. It’s a suspense novel set in Copenhagen and Zurich and the main characters are a writer, literary agent, and a CIA operative. Yep, it’s literary crack. And I'm addicted.

I should have the book in seven days since I opted for the hardcover. And when I review the books, I'll be sharing it on this blog too.

Eden to Amazon

For as long as I can remember, I’ve made up stories. I’d sit in an airport and make up stories about the people that walked by. As I drove past houses, particularly interesting ones, I’d make up stories about the people who live inside. The most poignant stories were always about the people with neglected gardens.

As I’d drive or walk by a house with a neglected garden, I looked to see whether the bones of an excellent garden where underneath the weeds. I’d look for specimen plants—exotic creatures that take special nurture. I’d spy out meandering foot paths or artfully planted foundation plants. And, of course, if I spied out the bones beneath the neglect, the story I told myself would become tragic. Often, it would run like this. A dear woman (all woman who garden are wise, aesthetic souls) planted and cared for a lovely garden. One day, disease or death struck. And now her husband can’t bear to be out weeding and mulching because it reminds him of her. And now the garden lies in disarray—a physical reminder of love lost. (Yes, my younger daydreams were melodramatic.)

Now that I am older and wiser, I know the truth because my garden has gone from Edenic to Amazonian. (Okay, it was never Edenic, but this is my blog post so I’m allowed a little creative license.) And the cause of the neglect isn’t debilitating disease or death or even a bad case of the flu…it’s writing deadlines. When you’re looking for passive voice, mixed metaphors, etc., there isn’t time to trim the roses or weed the Bermuda. (I tried Roundup, but it must’ve rained before the poison dried. Grumble, grumble.)

In any case, Screwing Up Alexandria is now pubbed, and I’m out in the garden with shears and shovels (yes, some of the weeds are that big). And soon I’ll banish the Amazonian takeover. But, I am a little wistful because I’m wondering how many other writers who drive by my house are going to have their tragic stories ruined. Sorry.

(Okay, so please tell me that I’m not the only one who makes up stories about gardens.)

Yeah, okay, so this isn't my garden. It's one of the gardens at Versailles.
But a girl can dream, right?

How Much Money Can You Pay for an Ugly House?

On Saturday mornings, my husband and I have a tradition. We go to the Wall Street Journal online and check out the real estate section, especially the “House of the Week” section. Some of the houses are beautiful. Some…not so much.

Occasionally, a real loser will pop up. And I say, “Look, honey, if we had fifteen million dollars, we could buy a horrifically ugly home.” He says, “We could always sell it.” I say, “But really, who would buy it? And then, we’d have to pay taxes on the affront to architecture and good taste.”

Then, we drink our coffee and look at the next house.  And I smile and think, “Ah, what a blessing to have a house that costs only 1% of the overpriced piece of junk. And ours is cute to boot.

Screwing Up Alexandria!

Screwing Up Alexandria is here! Click here to buy it.

Book three of the Screwing Up Time series is now live on Amazon. It went live late Wednesday night—two hours after I uploaded it, which was amazing.

Even more amazing, yesterday a writing friend emailed me a screen shot and said, “Have you seen this?” I hadn’t. Screwing Up Alexandria was #1 in sales in one of its categories.

I’m excited to see how sales go today.

Here’s the cover art and book blurb.

Time traveling has never brought Mark Montgomery anything but grief. And then, things get worse.

When Mark comes home from Babylon with a coded tablet, he never dreams someone would be willing to kill to get it. But they are.  So Mark and Miranda kidnap an ancient cryptographer named Nin and take her to the Library of Alexandria to decipher it.

The search for the truth of the tablet takes all of them to the most dangerous time on earth. And when Nin ends up on an altar surrounded by blood-thirsty crowds, only Mark can save her. And he's blind.

Also, A. B. Keuser interviewed me about Screwing Up Alexandria. Read the interview here.