Greetings From Colorado

Happy Tuesday, chickens! I've jetted across the country to Colorado, where I am taking refuge from all this travel at my parents'. I'm holed up trying to meet a minor deadline, and this is just the place for it. Fresh mountain air, beautiful scenery, and some pets to love. They have an adorable miniature pincher named Jetta, and a gorgeous Siamese named Jamocha. If my man was here it would be perfect. That, and the disappearance of the pesky sore throat and fever that joined the party this morning. Not surprising after two weeks of canned air. I am sucking down tea and lozenges at a rapid pace.

Every time I come out here, I'm struck by the same emotions. I thought I'd share the essay I wrote once upon a time, (August 2006, to be exact) just because it makes me happy to do so. Here you go, and have a superb week!

I’m away from home this week, visiting family in Colorado. I'm trying to work. I’m sitting on the deck, trying desperately to hit that magic 1,000 word a day vacation goal. I’m pecking away at the keyboard of my laptop, and I can’t concentrate.

It is just so beautiful here.

This is my home, where I spent my formative years. All of my firsts happened in this area. I learned to golf, and swim, and play tennis, and ski here. I learned to drive, had my first kiss, lost a close friend to suicide. I spent all of my time out of doors, leaving the house first thing in the morning and not returning until the gloaming. There were three of us in kindergarten, and it wasn’t until second grade that they decided to bus in some kids from neighboring areas, so we weren’t alone.

I learned to drive, to dream, to work. I fell in and out of love with my brother’s friends. I snuck off into the red rocks with a couple of friends to smoke cigarettes; we discovered dinosaur tracks in the rocks. I was isolated by geography, yet lived the fullest possible life that a child could lead.

These are often melancholy memories, for I left this area under extreme duress when I was a teenager. My parents moved us to Washington, D.C., someplace I had absolutely no interest in going to. I cried for a year. I left every part of me behind. For many unfortunate years, I believed I left the best parts of me behind.

This area is so fraught with emotion, with memories, that I can’t seem to work on the new book. From an objective sense, the beauty of the area overwhelms me. But what’s really happening is everywhere I look, I see the ghost of a smaller me, sniffing the bark of the pine trees trying to decide if the scent is chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. (Don’t believe me? Try it.)

I am so inextricably linked to these woods, these rocks, the greens, blues, blacks and browns, the deer and bear, that I can’t seem to keep Nashville and Taylor Jackson, my protagonist, foremost in my mind.

I’ve settled for writing some short stories. The tenor is completely different from some of my earlier work. It’s moody, and atmospheric, and I’m finding new expressions to illustrate my surroundings. I think once I’m back home, in my office, staring at the river birch outside my window, I’ll be able to refocus on Nashville, and killers, and homicide lieutenants.

This does not bode well for the lifelong dream – the house in Tuscany half the year to write, write, write.

In the meantime, I want to watch the black storm clouds lurk over the jade and stone mountains. I want to smell the sparkling air, tinged with the scent of wet asphalt, moldy leaves and the barest hint of skunk. I want to laugh at the antics of the towhees, scratching for dinner in the scrub oak.

I want to watch the golfers stream in off the course, shouting admirations to one another as they come in to the 19th hole for a post-round drink.

I want to watch the deer wander through the backyard, stopping at the birdbath for a quenching draught of water. They all seem to have had twins this year, so Bambi keeps interrupting my thoughts. (As does Jetta the Wonderdog.) They’re all adorable.

Each time I return, I realize that I didn’t leave the best parts of me behind, but stamped my imprint on the area in such a palpable yet subtle way that I will always feel like I’ve come home.

It’s okay that I can’t work on the book. There are other avenues to explore, other stories to put on paper. I hope to take it home with me, this texture and depth. For today though, this setting is just one spark that I will use to write something... different.

So tell me, what's your favorite place in the world???

When Life Imitates Art

I’m in Anaheim this week for RWA. I am blessed to have been nominated for a Rita® in Romantic Suspense, which is overwhelmingly exciting, but also bittersweet on a certain level, because the book that’s nominated, WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE, is the last in my Taylor Jackson series for a while. Several months ago, my team and I made a decision to let Taylor take a long vacation, and focus on a new character, Dr. Samantha Owens.

Suffice it to say, starting a new series was scary for me. After seven books with the same lead character, I was in a groove. I knew how everyone would react. It was simply a matter of creating a dynamic plot and a cool villain to confront them with.

But Sam had been knocking on the doors and windows of my Muse’s hamlet, begging to strut her stuff on the page. When at long last I relented, and decided to spin off her character, changes needed to happen.

To do the new series justice, it needed to be different. To start – a new setting. I settled on Washington, D.C., my former home of many years. And Sam needed to be unmarried, and unencumbered by children. I debated long and hard. Divorce? Custody arrangements? Multiple scenarios, but they all kept her tied to Nashville. There was only one choice.

Her husband and children had to die.

I fought against this reality for weeks. I couldn’t do that to her. And there are rules in writing. You can’t kill animals, and you can’t kill children. Except you can. And I did. The question became not if they died, but how. Car accident? Been done. Plane crash? Been done.

And then it hit me. The flood.

Nashville was stricken with a flood of biblical proportion in 2010. As it happens, A DEEPER DARKNESS released on the second anniversary of that fateful weekend, that moment in time where we lost so much. Synchronicity at its finest. I was able to both honor those hurt and killed in the real flood and give Samantha a chance to recover with everyone else. Recover we did. It hasn’t been easy, but we’re back on our feet.

Another challenges was finding the right tone, the right mood, to express Samantha’s loss without suffocating the reader in her grief. I needed to get in her head, and live there, trying to understand how hard it must be to lose a husband, and to lose her twins. How, and if, that sadness could be overcome.

I used a lot of music to guide me, mostly the mournful, melancholy cover of “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. The song makes me weep, and the video tears a hole in my heart. Imagining the loss of my own husband, how frightened and alone I would feel, helped me mine Sam’s grief.

With grief comes hope. With hope comes possibility. They say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and for a young, dynamic, intelligent widow, simply surviving her loss makes her invincible. Samantha stares into the abyss, acknowledges its presence, and somehow, some way, pulls herself back from the brink. And is rewarded for her strength.

Ironically, without realizing it, I was writing the story of my past few years. My husband and I have struggled with infertility for half a decade. Multiple pregnancies resulted in multiple miscarriages. IUIs and IVF didn’t work. Over and over, I lost my own children.

I thought I was fine. Normal. Nominal. That I’d dealt with my own grief, my own loss. But it wasn’t until I read A DEEPER DARKNESSin galley form that I realized I’d used the book as therapy. All of Sam’s losses mirrors my own. Her strength, her hope, her will to continue on gave me the strength to do the same.

A DEEPER DARKNESS isn’t a sad book. Samantha Owens is all of us: our hopes and fears, our determination and our weakness. For the first time in my writing career, I’ve put myself on the page. And that’s possibly the most terrifying thing of all.

On Go Bags of the Apocalypse

We spent our 4th of July in a different way than usual. There was no party, no drinking on the deck or relaxing by the pool. Not even any golf. Instead, we took the day to assemble our emergency Go Bags.

Many of you know my parents were five miles from the pre-evacuation areas for the Waldo Canyon fire. Last week, when things were looking dire, I got on the phone to my dad and suggested he pull together all his documents and stuff BEFORE the pre-evac calls came, just so he wouldn't be rushing around trying to gather stuff whilst worrying about the fire sneaking past the lines and sweeping through our little valley. This happens. Often enough that it's time to be prepared. Just in case.

I did some incredibly fun (and scary) research for EDGE OF BLACK on survivalists, AKA preppers. People who have themselves ready if a disaster happens. There's even a television show that popped up this spring about their somewhat extreme lifestyle. People laughed and made fun, but I'm here to tell you - whether it's an electromagnetic pulse that shuts down the power grids, a meteor that hits the earth, nuclear war, or just a tornado, flood, hurricane or fire - some forethought into what you'd do in that situation goes a long way toward making your life easier.

Since we got caught unprepared for the 2010 Nashville flood, we've been seeking to remedy the situation we found ourselves in - no communication, no power and no water for three days will capture your attention quite quickly. We've been slowly accruing the materials we'd need if this ever happens again. Everything's been stashed in a big plastic box in the dining room. The problem is, while we're set if we have an extended power outage, should a tornado sweep through Nashville, as they are wont to do, I'm hardly going to have the time to go to said plastic box and pick out what I need.

Enter the Go Bags of the Apocolypse. (Yes, that's our smart ass way of defusing the fear and tension that goes into the thought that you might need this kind of stuff someday.)

Our Go Bags, or Bug Out Bags, are simply a backpack, filled with everything you can possibly think of - first aid, water filtration, batteries, flashlights, medicine, lighters, radios - anything and everything you'd need to survive a week out of doors in the event of a natural disaster. The out of doors part is important - you never know what might happen to displace you in an emergency.

Our Go Bags also have some really important stuff - family papers and the like. Here's a superb spot to check out for ideas of what you might need. So the next time we have tornado warnings, all I have to do is grab the Go Bags, throw them in the car and head to Randy's office (a gigantic brick building with excellent support - much safer than our little house with no basement.) I don't have to worry if things get messed up, because I have copies of everything with me.

Look at the folks in Colorado who were evacuated and lost their homes in last week's fires, and the folks in the D.C. area who got hit by that freak inland hurricane. Some smart preparations now can save you from days, weeks without power, shelter, personal possessions, everything.

I know this all sounds alarmist. But these kinds of preparations are vital for people who live in areas that have funky weather. Take the end of the world as we know it (TEOTWAWKI) scenarios out of the picture entirely if it makes you feel better. Just think about how much this would help your family in the event of disaster.

In the course of my research for EDGE, the site I liked the most was SurvivalCache.com. Joel and the crew are rational, competent people who have put together a valuable resource for the average Joe's in the world who don't have military training in survival. They have some incredible lists of important things to think about for your emergency preparedness plan, like this 3 day emergency basic primer: 7 Types of Gear Needed for Your Bug Out Bag. And this guide from Last One Alive is excellent and practical.

Whether it's something precious that you simply can't live without or something vital that you can't live without, I urge you to take a look around at these sites and think about your disaster plan. It will let you sleep easier at night. Trust me.

On the Scent of a Woman

Shalimar.

Quick. What's that make you think of? Can you smell it?

Shalimar on cold fur, whispering against my mother’s skin as she came to tuck me in after an evening out at a fancy ball.

Shalimar means Temple of Love in Sanskrit. And really, isn’t that why we use perfume and cologne? To attract? To comfort. To leave behind a memory? I am fascinated by what people choose to dab themselves in. It’s so much more than smelling pretty, really, it’s more about who you are. Your scent says a lot about you. So don't laugh when I say this is probably the most intimate post I've ever done.

I don’t wear much perfume these days. Instead, I’m a dedicated fan of La Vanilla, which is a rollerball delivered essential oil of vanilla. It is yummy. Delicious. When I wear it my husband tells me I smell good. That’s good enough for me.

But I’ve tried my hand at a number of perfumes over the years.

I started out with the age-old classic, Love’s Baby Soft.

I remember how special I felt when I graduated to White Shoulders.

Then on to Charlie, which I always felt vaguely silly wearing.

Anäis Anäis, my first teenager girl perfume.

Tresor, my second teenage girl perfume.

Joy, which trumped all of the above and was without a doubt my signature scent from about fifteen to thirty.

Chanel no. 5, which they’ve sadly just changed the formula on.

Gio, which, to my utter horror, was discontinued and parades now as Aqua di Gio, a pale imitation of its scrumptious predecessor.

Arpege, which I still wear on occasion, but has a tendency to make drunk men corner me by the bathrooms and tell me I smell pretty.

Philosophy Love Me Tender, which I do still wear. Mostly in my hair, at the beach, for some reason.

Despite that list, I’m incredibly picky when it comes to scent. Patchouli makes me sneeze.Red Door gives me an immediate migraine. Obsession was just so, well, obsessive. Most perfumes seem too loud, too forward. And when it comes to men’s scents – forget about it.

My man wears this great subtle cologne that no one can smell but me, because you can’t smell it unless your nose is literally up against the skin. (He’s going to kill me for that. I foresee Randy being sniffed at close range at the next conference bar…)

But I’ve dated them all.

Polo – Sorry, boys, but GAG ME WITH A SPOON. Granted, Polo used with a modicum of discretion probably wouldn’t be bad, but for some reason, men loved to drown themselves in it. There was one guy in high school who you could literally smell coming from two halls away.

Royal Copenhagen – okay, that’s more like it. A subtle, powdery scent.

Davidoff Cool Water – I am so not going there… but I do still have the clear glass heart Christmas ornament he gave me. Shhh....

Drakkar Noir – It sounded so freaking cool – I wear Drakkar – but the guys who did were utter Guidos or on the wrestling team. I always wondered how that felt, being pinned to the mat by a guy wearing Drakkar. Well, how it felt for the guys. Ahem.

My Dad was an Aqua Velva Guy. I am immediately sent into his arms any time I smell it. Same with Old Spice and my grandfather.

But Shalimar… wow. A classic. We were watching MAD MEN the other night, the first season, and Joan’s roommate asks her is she’s wearing Shalimar, and I was thrust back in time, to the mirrored perfume tray on my dresser, chock full of lovely glass bottles. To the feeling of being a woman, fresh from the shower, dabbing perfume in my pressure spots – inside the wrist, inside the elbow, behind the knee, behind the ear, between the breasts. Seeing my olfactory palate change as I matured.

There’s something so indefinable, yet so concrete, about how a woman smells. And no matter what, those smells are attached to memories. Good memories, bad memories, indifferent memories. Memories that make us laugh, or cry, or feel vaguely ashamed.

Think of the pheromones we put off naturally, the undetectable aromas that attract a mate. Think of how we spent so many years disguising them, drowning out our natural scent in favor of smelling like a flower. To what end? Attracting bumblebees?

Well damn. That just makes me think about Spanish Fly.

I thought I’d drag you down memory lane with me. Tell me about your favorite scent, your favorite cologne, from now, or then. A scent that evokes a memory. Something that you love, or hate. That makes you tingle inside, or draw back in disgust.

Ready? Go!

On the Pursuit of Perfection

Randy and I were up way too late Friday night watching VH1 Classic - a favorite past time. The show was Rush in Rio, the concert that brought the band back together. We've always been big Rush fans - and I'm particularly fascinated by Neil Peart. An amazing drummer, Peart seems to me one of the great geniuses of our time, able to coax unbelievable beats from his drums, plus he writes many of the lyrics. Which are poetry, pure and simple.

I asked Randy if Peart ever talks about his gift, in terms of a gift. Or if he practices all day, every day. Or if it's a bit of both. Randy said it was definitely both and told me the story of how Peart went to New York and worked with a jazz coach to improve his skills. Neil Peart, people. Possibly the best drummer who ever lived, taking lessons.

It made me think of Tiger Woods, how back when he was at the top of his game, he got into what he perceived as a slump and switched swing coaches. Pro golfers, like pro musicians, and all pros, of every kind, practice. A lot. All day. It is their job. It is their purpose. It's how they maintain their level of professionalism. If they didn't put in the time, they'd lose their spot at the top.

Coming into the 2012 summer Olympics, we are about to see this relentless pursuit of perfection personified by the best athletes in the world. I think that's part of the draw to these events, the awe-stopping nature of knowing just how much work actually goes into getting to be world-class.

As writers, we too must practice. But I'm always surprised when I hear writers say they don't read books on the craft. It boggles my mind, really. How else are we to get better if we don't expose ourselves to other writer's stories, and either emulate or adapt our own processes and thinking to theirs? How else will we sharpen our intuition and experiment?

I just ordered WRITING THE BLOCKBUSTER NOVEL by Al Zuckerman, Ken Follett's agent, based on a conversation I had with Laura Lippman, Jeff Abbott and others on Facebook. Laura mentioned a method she was using to outline her story, and kindly shared her actual outline. In reading it, I realized what I was doing wrong. Not wrong, exactly, because it works, I was just making things so much more difficult for myself. I now have a new method to try, to practice with, to hone into my own.

We must read, and write every day. And if a cool craft book comes your way, by all means, read it. You never know what you might learn. Here's a list of craft books I think are tops in the field, in no particular order:

On Writing - Stephen King
Write Away - Elizabeth George
The Writer's Journey - Christopher Vogler
Screenwriting Tips for Authors - Alexandra Sokoloff
Forest For The Trees - Betsy Lerner
The War of Art – Steven Pressfield
The Creative Habit – Twyla Tharp
Rapt: Attention and the Focused Life – Winifred Gallagher
Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience – Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
Hamlet's Blackberry - William Powers
The Artist's Way - Julia Cameron

Do you have any favorite ways to learn?