Most writers I know are driven people. We are always working, even if we don’t have pens in hand or a keyboard under our fingertips. We’re thinking. Plotting. Characterizing. We’re running through “what-if” scenarios. It goes on all the time! (Talk about never leaving work…)

It seems like such a great job: Working our own hours, being flexible. But we knock ourselves out week after week to make our page count goals, then stress over our final deadlines. Once we turn in a completed manuscript, we wonder if the product is good enough. Or if it’ll meet expectations. We worry about covers, print runs, reviews.

Our bosses are really tough – ourselves. We second-guess and rewrite scenes until they meet our own expectations. We wake up at all hours with ideas on how to put the next scene together or why the previous scene didn’t really work the way we thought it should.  Sometimes we’re up at 4 or 5 AM to get our writing done before going to our 9 to 5 jobs, or deal with family responsibilities. Some of us are night owls and write all evening, into the wee hours of the night until the words are out there on the page – or screen.

There aren’t a lot of occupations like ours. Sure, there are other jobs that are just as compelling. My last profession (critical care nursing) was one of them. But storytelling is a calling like no other. It’s an obsession. It can be difficult and stressful. We authors are far more demanding than any boss would ever be, but yet none of us would trade this job for anything. We hope you enjoy what we offer you!

Chapter One
London, mid-May, 1887

One Wednesday night on a sleepy side of London, Esme Worthington yawned a most unladylike yawn, then sniffled her nose before looking back at the text on her lap. It was long past a reasonable time for bed yet here she sat. Sometime after midnight she’d abandoned the hard chairs of her study for the more comfortable sofa in the parlor next door. But the plush floral cushions only assisted by lulling her to sleep rather than encouraging her to continue her research. She readjusted herself and blinked several times, trying to focus on the book before her.

She read the last sentence once again trying to absorb the words. Some of these so-called scholars simply had no notion what they were suggesting. Precisely how was an artifact from ancient Greece supposed to have ended up in the jungles of South America? Preposterous. There was no possible way that Pandora’s box had ended up on a Spanish explorer’s ship.

Another yawn.

Her great black tom lifted his sleepy head from where he slept curled warmly over her thighs. His gold eyes were nothing more than slits, then he yawned. “Horace, I do believe I shall retire for the evening. I don’t seem to be getting any work done at all.” She scratched him behind his ears and he rewarded her with a rhythmic purr. Placing the heavy book on the table next to her, she stood. “You guard the books and tomorrow morning I shall pour you some warm milk.”

Esme doused the lamp, then stepped into the hallway. Horace followed her and she scooped him into her arms. “Want to warm my feet tonight, do you?”

She stopped. Something scraped against the wood floor in the very next room. It was far too late for Aunt Thea to be awake. Perhaps it was one of the servants, though they were normally early to bed as well. She padded over to the room and nudged the door open.

Two men dressed head-to-toe in black stopped what they were doing and faced her as the door swung open.

A scream caught in her throat as Horace leaped from her arms and strolled into the study where the villains stood, his tail high in the air. Evidently his feline sense of danger was sorely lacking.

Her heart thundered, but she couldn’t very well leave them to continue their misdeeds now that they’d seen her. “I beg your pardon!” she said, straightening her back and trying to appear taller. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” Her study was in tatters. Papers thrown about and books on the floor. What kind of barbarians…she picked up the book resting by her toe and clutched it to her chest.

They were of equal height, but one was clearly more athletic and stronger than the other. The larger one strode over to her and she realized, far too late, that she had nothing to use as a weapon against the brute. Even her slippers were worthless for that sort of deed. She supposed she could whack him on the head with the book she held, but it was her prized copy of Gulliver’s Travels. She certainly couldn’t risk damaging the book. Besides, she didn’t want to wake her aunt or her elderly servants else she’d put them in danger too; so Esme stood her ground.

“I can assure you I have nothing here worth stealing. You are in the wrong neighborhood for that,” she said. “Although you are doing an admirable job of destroying my library.” Then it occurred to her that her precious books might very well be what they were after. “I have no original texts,” she lied. “These are all silly novels, not worth anything.” Another lie.

The man took another step toward her. His eyes were wild and frightening and when he ran them up and down her body, she became all too aware of the clothing she wore. Or rather the lack thereof. Granted it was several hours after midnight and a woman was generally given the right to sit in her own home wearing a night rail and robe. This man’s intense gaze penetrated her and caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand erect. She forced herself not to shiver.

Surely they were not here to ravish her. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she eyed her opponent. She would certainly cause all sorts of noise if that were the case. No matter that the other three persons in the house were grayed and wrinkled, they could grab a fire poker or sturdy umbrella and fend off her attackers. And Aunt Thea had those ridiculously heavy candelabras in the dining room. Perhaps it would have been much smarter had Esme grabbed one of those before storming in here unarmed.

“Where’s the key?” the man asked.

“Evidently you don’t need keys.” She pointed to the emptied drawers and shelves. “You simply force things open when you need to see within.”

He closed in on her, his expression one of ravenous greed. He ripped the book from her grasp and whisked it across the room. It landed on its spine, the pages fanning out until they settled open. Esme winced. Panic fluttered in her chest as she considered the damage they’d already done to her desk and books. She didn’t like to contemplate the damage such fiends could perpetrate on her person.

She narrowed her eyes at the man. “You should know that if you intend to ravish me that I will scream the house down,” she said, forcing her voice to be as calm as possible. “And believe me when I say that the people that will come running to assist me will do you much bodily harm.” An absurd notion.

He reached out and fingered the ruffled hem of her sleeve. His lip curled. “Tempting. But we only want the key,” his voice was deep and raspy. “And we’ve seen your staff.” A smirk, then a vicious chuckle escaped his ugly mouth.

Bored with the exchange, her cat took that moment to flip his tail in the air and strut out of the room. Now she was utterly alone with these dangerous men.

She crossed her arms over her chest, mostly to hide her shaking hands. She hoped it made her look formidable. Not an easy task for one so small in stature, but she did her best. “I simply don’t know which key you’re referring to.”

The man on the other side of the room twitched. “Thatcher, we don’t have time,” he said, his voice heavy with a Cockney accent.

“We take her then,” Thatcher said.

“You will do no such thing,” Esme said, taking a step backward.

The man in front of her silently closed the door behind her, then shoved a cloth in her mouth. Furiously she tried to spit it out, then reached up for it, but before she could, he grabbed her wrists and held them tight.

Esme tried scratching him while he manhandled her, but her blasted nails were so short, she caused little damage. She really must stop chewing them. With her feet she kicked and flailed, trying anything to deter them from taking her with them.

Nerves pummeled through her stomach in sickening waves. She was in serious danger. With renewed effort, she kicked her legs about, desperately aiming to hit a target, but failing nonetheless.

This simply was not happening.

Her efforts to wrench herself from her captor’s vice-like grip only succeeded in exhausting her. She fought to keep her breathing under control lest she end up hyperventilating and suffocate herself on the gag. Think, Esme. She could find a way out of this situation.

Surely they had mistaken her for someone else. She didn’t own anything valuable. Certainly not any keys. They didn’t even have a cabinet to lock up the family silver. Of course they no longer had any family silver. These foolish men were in the wrong house kidnapping the wrong woman.

Thatcher yanked the tie to her robe, and the loose folds fell open leaving her exposed to the chill. “Waters, tie her hands together.”

Waters did as he was told while Thatcher climbed out of the library window. The thin satin sash became a harsh cord as he tightened it against her wrists. With the stronger of the two captors distracted, she doubled her efforts at trying to break free from Waters’ clutches. But despite his slender body, his hands gripped her arms, sealing her in place.

“Hand me her feet,” Thatcher said in a harsh whisper.

Waters complied and in an instant she was being passed through the window as if she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“Her bum is stuck on the window,” Waters said.

“Well, lift her up.” Thatcher’s impatience was evident.

Waters gave her a lift. “She has quite the bottom for such a wee thing.”

She glared at him, but he was not looking at her face. More than anything she wished to take the wretched cloth out of her mouth and give them a tongue lashing for speaking so cruelly about her bottom. Perhaps it was a bit on the large side for a woman of her size, but she had always been rather fond of it.

Once they were all out on the ground, Esme noticed the waiting coach. Four black steeds stomped impatiently. Clearly owned by someone quite wealthy, the large carriage was black with gilded filigree and despite the dark night, Esme noted how it shone. A crest emblazoned the door, backed in red and in the center a great black bird, its wings spread as if it were about to fly away.

The street was barren except for the coach, but she was only a few steps from rounding the corner to a much busier lane. Now was her chance to try to get away. She bolted toward the front street, but the clouds shielding the almost full moon made seeing rather challenging. Nevertheless, she’d made it a far distance before one of the men crashed on top of her, knocking the air from her lungs and crushing her with his weight.

The damp grass chilled her immediately, reminding her all too well she was clad only in her aging nightrail.

“You’re not going anywhere you little bitch.” Thatcher pulled her to her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. In one swift movement he had dumped her inside the carriage, on the dirty floor of the rig. Then he jumped in right behind her as they began jostling down the street.

“Get up on the seat,” Thatcher snarled at her. When she didn’t move, he lifted her and shoved her onto the seat. “You can’t ride on the floor like that. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

She kept her legs pulled to her chest, trying to warm her body. But the shivering would not still. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed this scenario away. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Upon opening her eyes though it was all too real. Both villains were in the small confines with her. She pushed the curtain back as best she could with tied hands. If she couldn’t escape, the least she could do was find out where they were taking her.

The dimly lit streets of London passed by and she tried to keep a running catalogue of all the roads they passed. But soon they’d turned down a road she didn’t recognize and then another until she was thoroughly lost. She let the curtain fall back into place.

Esme was certain that the men could hear her heart pounding, so loudly it beat in her chest. She willed her pulse to slow, taking steadying breaths. Esme closed her eyes. Perhaps if they thought her to be asleep they would let their guard down just long enough for her to escape.

“What will we do with her?” Waters asked.

Thatcher cracked his knuckles. The sickening pop echoed against the small carriage walls. “We’ll take her with us to the dungeon. Then we’ll bring her to The Raven, he’ll get her to talk.”

…are Jenifer for Line of Scrimmage and Love at First Flight for Emmanuelle. Congratulations, ladies! Please email Marie with your contact information at marie@marieforce.com.

I’m afraid of birds. I know, I know, they’re not going to hurt me, they can be quite pretty, they sound so nice. Still, I’m terrified. The smaller the bird, the worse it is…I don’t know why, but this is a phobia, which is an irrational fear, so I don’t really need a reason. Mine is called ornithophobia, which leads me to believe I’m not the only one who’s got this particular hang-up.

My family has become accustomed to my little fear. I hate going in the garage, for example, because these two EVIL wrens have made a nest there and swoop at my head, which makes me scream and run out into the driveway like a little girl. The hummingbird who visits the hanging plants on my porch is cause for great concern…I lurch out of my chair, full of exclamations… “Did you SEE that? It came so close to my head! Good God! What is WRONG with that thing? Do you think it has rabies?” I can’t go into the barn down the street, even though I love horses, because the barn swallows are out to get me. When I was about ten, a robin flew down our chimney and into the house, and though my father commanded me to open some windows to help it escape, I chose to huddle under the kitchen table and laugh maniacally.

Baby birds are the most terrifying to me…should I come upon a baby bird who’s fallen from the nest, I feel bad, I really do. And I may even try to rehabilitate it…it’s just that my teeth chatter and my hands shake. Those little suckers are ugly! The bulging bluish eyes, the huge beak, those nasty, naked wings…but I can’t just leave it there, either. Thankfully, my children have finally aged enough that they can handle this, should the need arise.

In the tradition of “know thy enemy,” I can recognize most of the birds in the area. I even have a bird feeder, because I do like birds (from a safe distance). My copy of the Audubon guide is quite well worn. Bigger birds, like owls and seagulls, don’t bother me a bit. I love Canada geese, for example, and feed them from hand at a nearby pond. I love birds of prey, as they’re so regal and beautiful. But should a sparrow fly into the window, I tend to do what I think of as the “shriek and flee” — I scream, often spitting coffee as I do, then run into the bathroom to hide until my children reassure me that the big bad birdie is gone. Speaking of Big Bird…he was never one of my favorites. (Just for the record, Ernie is my #1).

There are hundreds of strange phobias. We’ve all heard of claustrophobia, of course, and maybe arachnophobia…but how about some of these?

Porphyrophobia…the fear of the color purple. I wonder what happens when you encounter someone wearing that color…

Odontophobia… fear of teeth. Hard to avoid teeth, I would think, given that most of us have teeth…

Philemaphobia…fear of kissing. Glad I don’t have that one.

Lutraphobia…fear of otters. Come on. Otters are cute. Of course, people may say that about birds, too…

Rhytiphobia…fear of getting wrinkles. There’s a whole industry based on this one. Makes me glad I live in New England, where wrinkles are still considered something that give your face character.

Pnigerophobia…fear of being smothered. I’m sorry. Don’t we all fear being smothered? That doesn’t seem too irrational to me…

Do you have a phobia? Have you tried to overcome it, or do you just accept it and avoid that thing that gives you the heebie-jeebies?

We at the Jaunty Quill are thrilled to have author Marie Force (Line of Scrimmage, Love at First Flight) joining us today. Thanks for dropping by, Marie!

Thanks for having me, Kristan and the other Jaunty Quills!

First of all, tell us about Love at First Flight and how this idea came to you.

It all began with a delayed flight and a penchant for eavesdropping… Way back in 1999, I was in the Baltimore airport waiting for a late flight to Jacksonville, FL, where I lived at the time. A twenty-something guy and girl—who were not together—were discussing their upcoming visits with their long-distance loves in FL, and both were lamenting the trials and challenges the distance had caused in their relationships. They discovered they were on the same flight home on Sunday night and agreed to meet up again to compare notes on how their respective weekends had gone. I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if they fell for each other? And a novel idea was born! I carried the idea around with me for six years before I wrote the book. I finished it in 2006 and sold it last year.

Your first book, Line of Scrimmage, is not a typical romance because the hero and heroine are already married. Readers went wild over this aspect of the book…In Love at First Flight, we’re given another non-traditional set up. You seem to enjoy pushing the boundaries a bit in your writing. Is this a deliberate choice, or something organic?

Love at First Flight is definitely an untraditional romance because we see the hero and heroine, Michael and Juliana, with other people before they get together—and when I say with, I mean with… I worried that readers who love traditional romances wouldn’t care for this aspect of the story, but so far reviewers really like it (phew!). The “boundary pushing” isn’t deliberate, as I certainly didn’t set out to write offbeat romances. With both Line of Scrimmage and Love at First Flight, the ideas felt fun to me so I ran with them, and readers have responded enthusiastically.

When do you struggle in your writing? What’s the hardest aspect of a story for you?

I struggle to find the time to write. I have a full-time day job and two busy kids, so the writing time is really limited. The hardest aspect of a story for me is probably the opening scene. I have to get that just right before I can move forward. This trend goes back to my newspaper reporting days when I had to get that first paragraph just so before I could write another word. I haven’t changed much in the twenty years since then!

And what do you enjoy the most?

I love writing dialogue. It’s my favorite part of writing fiction. I love being the evil puppet master who gets to speak for all my characters. I also find myself salivating with anticipation when I get to write a great big fight scene between the hero and heroine, including the exchange of painful and scathing barbs that undermine the relationship. I’m not sure what that says about me, but it’s the truth!

Are you like any of your characters? Anyone from your real life pop into your books?

There is definitely a little bit of me in all my characters. Ryan in Line of Scrimmage was a smart aleck like I can be, and Susannah got some of her sarcasm from me. I share a hometown with Michael in Love at First Flight (Newport, RI) and have devotion to my extended family in common with Juliana. As for real-life characters, I have an unsold manuscript that features a cast of senior citizens that are based on my dad and his friends, which was really fun to write. Sometimes you realize you can’t make up better characters than those who exist in your real life.

Who are some of your favorite authors?

Nora Roberts is my all-time favorite as well as her alter ego J.D. Robb. I also enjoy a lovely writer named Kristan Higgins. Her books are seriously hysterical! Lisa Kleypas’s contemporaries are wonderful. I adored Sugar Daddy and Blue-Eyed Devil, and I’m campaigning hard for Smooth Talking Stranger for my birthday. I’ve ventured into the historical genre for the first time this year, and I’m currently reading Lisa’s Wallflower series. I love it!

Any trends you see these days in romance? Any pet peeves or favorite devices you care to share?

In the way of trends, I’m hearing that contemporary is finally making a big comeback. Yay! This is great news for those of us who love to read and write contemporary romances. As for peeves, I recently posted on the Casablanca Authors blog (http://casablancaauthors.blogspot.com) about my romance peeves. Here are a few of them:

1. Modern women who come across as TSTL (too stupid to live).

2. An overabundance of “girlfriend” scenes… Page after page of the heroine bemoaning to another woman about her love life problems. I’d much rather see her fight it out with the guy. (And if I get to write the fight, all the better…

3. Important scenes that occur “off camera.” I want to experience all the big moments, not hear about them later, especially if the heroine is telling her girlfriend—ACK! Double demerits!

4. I hate misunderstandings. I don’t want to see a hero and heroine break up, especially without a great big hairy fight, over a misunderstanding that everyone but them knows is a misunderstanding.

Glad you asked?

What’s next for you in terms of writing?

I’m working on a new series about four brothers and their manipulative mother’s efforts to marry them off to women she decides are perfect for them. She will find that her “boys” have ideas of their own about what constitutes a perfect mate and none of their mother’s candidates come close to making the cut. I’m setting the series on an island with a family marina business at the heart of it. Since I grew up on an island, we’ve always had a boat, and I worked at a marina for five summers, I figure I’m well prepared to write these books.

Note from Kristan: Marie will give away a signed copy of Line of Scrimmage and Love at First Flight to a lucky responder!

by Barbara Freethy

Please welcome Barbara Freethy (the awesome woman herself, says Anne) to the blog!

Many people have asked me where my ideas come from, and although some books seem to come out of nowhere, other books I can trace to a small seed of an idea. Of course, many of those tiny seeds of ideas never actually bloom into anything, because once I start trying to figure out the story, I realize there is no way it will work. Sometimes I don’t have this realization until well into the book at which point I turn to my writing friends and ask them why they didn’t tell me this was a bad idea when I first spoke about it. This happened when I wrote SILENT RUN, which is about a woman who suffers amnesia after a terrible car accident and is running for her life, only she doesn’t know who her enemy is, because she can’t remember anything.

I hadn’t realized the challenges that would present themselves with a heroine who had amnesia. Often writers introduce character details and themes and problems in introspection, but my heroine didn’t know anything about herself, so she was no help at all. I had to find ways through her behavior, her instincts, and how people interacted with her in order to bring her character to life. It was quite a challenge. The initial seed for that book was actually the idea that a woman gets a car accident, and there’s a baby car seat in the back, but when she wakes up, she doesn’t know who she is or where her baby is. She has to save her child, but how does she start? From there the story took birth.

Another one of my ideas came from a title for an article in a travel magazine called, “Where Dragons Dance”. It was about the Chinese New Year Parade in San Francisco. From that initial thought came my book, GOLDEN LIES. I actually wanted to call it Where Dragons Dance, but the publisher voted me down. In that story, the hero takes his grandmother to the Antique Road Show with a wagon full of junk they found in her attic. They discover that the ugliest dragon statue they have ever seen is actually thousands of years old, from an ancient Chinese dynasty, and of course there’s a legend …

My latest book, SUDDENLY ONE SUMMER, which was released last week (shameless plug ) was originally thought of as Angel’s Bay, which became the name of the series. In this book, the back story came to me first while my husband and I were driving down the California coast. I thought it would be fun to create a fictional bay and town with an interesting history. My daughter had done a project on the California Gold Rush, and I remembered the stories of the people who fled San Francisco after the Gold Rush ended. The boats were too crowded and laden with gold … I wondered what would happen if one of those ships went down. And Angel’s Bay was born. From that tiny seed, I created a town, a legend about the shipwreck which included tales of treachery on the high seas, and a few other layers including a story quilt that the survivors of the wreck put together in honor of their lost loved ones. Community quilting continues to play out in the current stories.

SUDDENLY ONE SUMMER is a contemporary novel, so once I had the back story I had to create the current story. It opens when my heroine, who is on the run with a seven-year-old, commits an impulsive act of bravery, which thrusts her into the spotlight and under the nose of a very sexy, burned-out reporter, who thought he’d lost his unquenchable thirst for the truth until he met Jenna. But his desire to expose her secrets could prove fatal. In the book, the current story intertwines with the past as some of the characters discover an unknown connection to the town and its history. And what would Angel’s Bay be without a few angels?

I’m current working on book three in the series, and my latest idea sprang from a question, what would you do if you fell in love with the worst possible person? In Brianna’s case, that person is the cop who sent her husband to jail and robbed her son of his father. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, but I can’t wait to find out!

Thanks to the Jaunty Quills for inviting me to guest blog. Anne Mallory has spent many hours at Starbucks listening to me brainstorm, and she’s given me more than a few ideas, too!

So to the writers out there, where did you get the best idea you ever had? And for the readers out there, have you ever had an idea that you think would make a great book? And if you comment, you might win a copy of my new book, SUDDENLY ONE SUMMER!

Congratulations to Debra S, who won the drawing last week!
Debra – contact me via email (margo@margomaguire.com) and I’ll send you my January book, plus a book from my backlist!

I bet you thought I was going to do a post on Independence Day, didn’t you? Nope, too many of those out there. Although I will throw in a few flags:

Instead I thought I’d pass along some great information I read (on AOL) on how to improve your memory. And no, the string-around-the-finger does not work, at least not for me.

I confess, I’ve never been good with names, or faces so I’m always looking for suggestions on how to improve in that area. (My favorite is the Two-Word Trick)

The Two-Word Trick
Turns out, if you believe you can remember something, you may actually have better memory recall. By saying “Remember this!” you’re actually actively creating a memory with two little words. The next time you need to remind yourself of something, try saying “Remember this: The telephone bill is on the fridge,” and the act itself will help remind you. Attitude really is everything — studies show that adults who just accept memory loss as a part of aging have been shown to be more forgetful than those who don’t.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy!
Stressed? Chances are you’re also forgetful. People who are chronically fried are more likely to develop cognitive impairment. Cortisol, the hormone produced in times of high stress, interferes with memory formation. So, taking time to breathe and relax when frantically searching for your earrings may actually help you find them next time. Proven stress-management techniques like exercise and yoga can keep your memories and your body healthy.

Try a Java Jolt
Do you find your performance and memory lag around 4 p.m.? You’re not alone. Studies show that memory recall in the morning lags by late afternoon. The answer? Take a coffee break! A study from the University of Arizona has shown that not only is a nice afternoon latte a welcome change of pace, but it may also boost memory

Be Super-Social
Surround yourself with a vibrant social circle, and chances are your brain will stay vibrant, too. Studies from the Harvard School of Public Health found evidence that people who have an active social life may have a slower rate of memory decline. Make good friends now, and with any luck, you’ll still remember their names when you’re 90.

Go Herbal
You’ve probably heard that gingko biloba enhances and protects memory. But there’s a new kid on the block as well: Pycnogenol, an antioxidant derived from tree bark, has been shown to improve memory in senior citizens. Though research on both supplements is still ongoing, they seem promising … provided you can remember to take them regularly in the first place.

Watch the Partying
Guess what? Too much vodka doesn’t just lead to a hangover. It can actually impair your memory. In fact, a recent study from the University of Kentucky showed that hitting the bottle too hard for two months impairs memory for the next three months. In other words, party too hard for too long and you may not remember any of it later on (which is never a good thing).

Sleep on It
Got something you REALLY need to remember? Read it and sleep. Studies show that snoozing not only protects memories, but helps strengthen them. There’s also evidence that a midday nap can help with long-term memory formation. As if we really needed another excuse to nap during the day, now we know it can help us win “Jeopardy.” Score!

Practice Peter Piper
Need to remember a name, a place or some important info? Try to create an alliteration around it, and you’ll increase your chance of memory recall later. Mnemonic devices are a terrific way to engage your mind and studies have shown that alliterative devices work even better than imagery for memory recall. Think, “Hot Henry from HR” or “Stinky Sally.” (Just, uh, don’t say it out loud.)

Get Active!
More blood pumping means more blood flowing to your brain. Studies have shown that just 20 minutes of physical activity per day can markedly decrease memory deterioration. This doesn’t mean you have to become a triathlete to keep your brain power, but walking, dancing (which has the double benefit of increasing memory through activity and social interaction), and even sex can help keep you mentally fit.

Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. As a kid, it was always one of my favorite holidays—the fireworks, having my dad home from work, backyard cookouts with plenty of desserts. What’s not to love?

As an adult, I still love the 4th, but I also think what a hassle to fight all the traffic to see a few fireworks. And it’s so hot outside. Houston is having a long, hot summer. Maybe I can have the backyard cookout in September…

I do have a friend who’s booked a hotel downtown, within walking distance of the fireworks. She and her boyfriend plan to order room service, walk to the fireworks, enjoy the show, and then walk back. Sounds like a plan to me.

So what are your plans? And are any of you lucky enough to live in one of these places? According to an article I read, these are American’s Best 4th of July Celebrations.

1. National Independence Day Parade – Washington, D.C.

What: The National Independence Day Parade takes place in the nation’s capital, the most fitting place to celebrate the 4th of July. Bands, giant balloons, floats, equestrian teams, celebrities and dignitaries all participate in the parade for quite a spectacle.

Where: On Constitution Avenue from 7th to 17th Street.

When: The parade starts at 11:45 am on July 4th.

Tip: After the parade, spend the day celebrating and watch the impressive nighttime fireworks display at the National Mall.

2. Macy’s 4th of July Fireworks Show – New York City

What: The Macy’s 4th of July Fireworks Show is the nation’s largest and longest Independence Day pyrotechnic display. This year the fireworks show is returning to the Hudson River location, where it was originally created.

Where: The 26-minute display will be set off from six barges positioned between 24th and 50th Streets on the Hudson River.

When: The fireworks display will begin at 9 pm EST.

Tip: If you can’t make it to the Macy’s fireworks show, tune in to your local NBC station to catch the broadcast version. The on-air version also features a celebrity line-up and performances from top recording artists.

3. Boston Harborfest – Boston, MA
What: Boston Harborfest is a week packed with patriotic activities leading up to a big day of celebration for the 4th of July. Harborfest pays homage to the colonial and maritime history of the American Revolution with reenactments, historical tours and costume-filled festivities.

Where: Though events are spread throughout Boston’s historic center, the Harborfest website recommends starting your festivities at City Hall Plaza at One City Hall Square, Boston, MA 02201.

When: Harborfest 2009 runs from Tuesday, June 30th through Sunday, July 5th. On the 4th of July, the Flag Raising Ceremony and Parade takes place from 9 am – 10 am, and fireworks start at 9 pm.

Tip: July 1st is Children’s Day and July 5th is Chowderfest, where restaurants across Boston compete for the title of Boston’s Best Chowder.

4. Gridlock 4th of July at the Queen Mary – Long Beach, CA

What: Touted as California’s largest fireworks display, Gridlock at the Queen Mary is a day full of 4th of July festivities that end with a dramatic pyrotechnic show. During the day, enjoy live music from over 15 popular bands while exploring the Queen Mary from stem to stern.

When: July 4th, 2009, from 10 am until 10 pm. The fireworks show begins at 9 pm.

Where: The Queen Mary is located at 1126 Queen’s Highway, Long Beach, CA 90802.

Tip: If you get too tired to go home after all the festivities, you can book one of the Queen Mary’s original hotel staterooms for the night.

Whatever your plans, have a safe and happy 4th!

My dearest Readers,
In honor of my “Save the School of Gallantry Campaign,” I decided to introduce all of you to the inspiration behind Madame de Maitenon. Yes, my silver haired retired courtesan and headmistress of the School of Gallantry. Meet Ninon de L’Enclos. I stumbled across her name during some research I was conducting for another story and the more I unearthed about this woman, the more I realized I HAD to create an equally fascinating character.

Ninon de L’Enclos was born in Paris in 1620 and came from an interesting family. Her father had been exiled from France for participating in a duel and when her mother died, she decided to enter a convent. Of course, she didn’t last very long and a year later, she left the convent and decided to strike out on her own using her wit and her body to make her fortune. How did she decide to go from convent to courtesan? It may surprise you to know that the one thing Ninon wanted above all else was to remain unmarried and independent. That left a woman only one of two choices back in those days. The convent. Or the life of a courtesan. She figured out pretty quickly that there wasn’t all that much fun to be had at the convent…

Ninon, once she went out into the world, actually became quite known for her passionate involvement in the literary arts, not just the sexual arts. She interacted and encouraged writers such as Moliere and even left money from her estate for her accountant’s son, Francois Arouet. Better known as Voltaire. Voltaire has Ninon to thank for his education. Without it, who knows what he would have turned into.

It was, however, the older Ninon that ultimately fascinated me. She took on many lovers throughout the years, but never more than one at a time and involved herself with powerful, wealthy men, such as the King’s cousin and dukes. Perhaps the most heartbreaking, yet fascinating of stories is about her son. Ninon involved herself with a wealthy, powerful man and bore him a son. This man took the son from Ninon and asked that she never disclose herself as being the boy’s mother. She agreed and watched her son grow up from a distance. Imagine her astonishment when her fully grown son appears at her door one day and ardently pleads to her if she’d take him into her bed. Ehm. Yes. Talk about awkward. At first, she simply denied him and brushed him off, hoping that his pride would simply squash whatever hopes he had. But her son was so obsessed and in love with her that he simply would not give her any sense of peace. Ninon was beside herself and knew she simply had to reveal the truth to him. To get him to stop. When she revealed the truth, her son quietly left and that same day committed suicide by impaling himself upon his own sword. It was a tragedy that haunted Ninon for the rest of her days.

Such tragedies, however, often leads to great wisdom. (Don’t we all know that…) She thrived upon using her experience at every turn. When she wasn’t bedding her current lover, she held literary events and discussions with aristocratic men having to do with philosophy, life, love, and yes, even sex. It was a “school” of sorts she had created and she had quite the following of men. In the early stages of creating my books, I decided to take these “discussions” of hers with men and turn it into an actual school. Hence the creation of the School of Gallantry.

Without a doubt, Ninon was known for her quips and wit. She had great sayings like, “Much more genius is needed to make love than to command armies.” (Ain’t that the truth) And my my favorite “The resistance of a woman is not always a proof of her virtue, but more frequently of her experience.” These fabulous quotes of hers gave me ideas upon ideas as to how my imaginary school should be run as well as the sort of quotes I wanted to see at the beginning of each chapter within my books. Hence the lessons. Call it a tribute, if you will, to the fabulous Ninon.

What is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Ninon and why I created an elderly courtesan for my series as opposed to a young one, is that the older Ninon got, the more sought after she became by men. Unlike most courtesans who were forced to retire due to age and lack of beauty, Ninon’s circle of admirers grew because they simply could not get enough of her wit and charm. Even women flocked to her for advice. One of my favorite stories about Ninon is when she was approached by a gentleman who desperately wanted to bed her but she really didn’t care for him. So she told him, “When I turn 80.” The man was so obsessed with her, that he waited, and when she turned 80, he showed up at her door saying it was time. Ninon was so amused by the man, she decided to bed him after all. Indeed, her approach toward men and toward life, the amount of wealth and power she acquired in her lifetime is beyond the comprehension of even a modern woman. I hail her for this alone. Ninon died at 84 and left her vast fortune to friends and admirers.

So there you have it. Ninon AKA Madame de Maitenon.

Cheers and much love,
Delilah Marvelle