Today is my birthday. I’m thirty-phftts years old.
No, no. I swore never to do that. My mother was thirty-nine for years. My grandmother, for decades. She’s still only fifty-two. Honest.
As a child, I always thought that was ridiculous. Why bother lying about your age? Instead, why not just live a good life, enjoy it, and be proud of the time you’ve spent on this earth?
But now that my daughter is starting Kindergarten, it makes a little more sense to me. I had my kids late in life, so I’m older than most of the other moms. A week ago, standing in the sweltering sun on the playground at the welcome-back “play date” with all the other moms in their late 20′s, I did feel a pang of longing for my own early-adulthood. And for my eyesight. (Not that my eyesight was ever great, but geez, at least I could always read a menu.)
But even if I’m not as young and perky as some of the other moms, I have lived a good life and I’m happy with how I spent every one of my thirty-nine years. Mostly. If I could apply for a rebate on thirty-two, I might be tempted. Nevertheless, on this particular day, I’m very happy with my life. I made Mojito cupcakes for my birthday. The Geek took me for an elegant dinner last night and bought me two cute purses for my present. I’m having lunch with good friends. And I have plans to watch chick-flicks all weekend long. Happy birthday indeed!

I’ll pick one person who comments to share in the birthday joy with a copy of my August release, His Accidental Fiancee.

Me, diving in Belize

My family and I just got back from a scuba diving trip in the Caribbean. The Geek and I have been diving since long before our kids and we’ve made a real effort to keep it up. It’s the last vestiges of our pre-kid life as a couple. There are a lot of things I love about diving. I love the silence of being underwater, where the only thing you can hear is the steady rhythm of your own breathing. I love the completely alien landscape of the coral reefs–like sixty feet under water there’s a whole ‘nother planet. I love the complexity of life under water–a few feet of reef can have hundreds, maybe thousands of species in it. All those creatures, just quietly going about their business regardless of my gawking at them like a tourist in Times Square. I kind of even love that no one can talk to me while diving. It’s just me, the fish, and my own thoughts. (What can I say? I’m an introvert.)

A scrawled file fish

I get very philosophical under water. It’s probably all that time alone in my head. Or maybe it’s just that the ocean seems to lessons to teach me. Every dive trip, I try to take away some big life lesson. Seven years ago, diving in the Pacific Ocean for the first time, I struggled against the current for most of the first dive, terrified the ocean would bash me against the rocks. I felt horribly ill-equiped to be down there. Then I noticed that none of the fish were struggle against the current. They were swimming with the current. I spent the rest of the trip thinking about how useless it is to flight something so big, when you can make it work for you instead.

Not a blenny, but a goby. Nevertheless, tiny and beautiful.

This trip, in a year when I’ve been struggling with professional jealousy (I mean, who doesn’t sometimes, right?), I thought about every body’s dive is different. Eight people can go into the water at the same time and each one of them is going to notice different things. Sometimes I’ll be swimming along and notice something tiny that no one else sees. An odd little algae growing on a soft coral that looks exactly like a flower. Or maybe the bright orange spots of the snout of a Banded Blenny. If I’m enraptured or entranced by the delicate fluttering of the fins of a file fish, does it matter if someone twenty feet ahead of me sees a Spotted Eagle Ray?

Once we’re all back at the resort and talking about the dive over a drink, it’s fun to hear about that Eagle Ray. I may feel a pang of regret that I didn’t see it, but that doesn’t make my Blenny any less beautiful.

So what makes you feel philosophical?

Nope. Not Christmas. (Though, don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of that too.)

And–despite those brilliant office supply ads–I’m not talking about school starting again either. (My daughter starts kindergarten this year, so I’m more tramatized than excited.)

Fellow Desire authors Jules Bennet, Emilie Rose, Ann Major and I at last year's RWA (I'm in the middle in the black and white dress)

The most wonderful time of the year that I’m talking about is the RWA national conference. That magical time when two thousand or more romance writers descend on one unsuspecting city and spend five days geeking out about writing and books. Yes, most of us are women. And all of us in a room together can be pretty deafening.The air is always thick with the scent of body lotions and Starbucks coffee. Not to mention buzzing with creative energy. The conversations you over hear at national range from strange to downright bizarre.  And I’m pretty sure more murders have been planned there than anywhere else in the country. Except maybe James Paterson’s house.

I leave tomorrow and still have a ridiculous amount of packing to do. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’ll get it all done. And, my house is a mess. Oh, and I have a conference call with a new editor get notes about some revisions. What genius set that up? (Um … me. I know, not my

Me and a bunch of other writers from Austin, all dressed up for the Ritas.

smartest move.) Oh, and my nails aren’t done. But it will get done. Some how it always does. (Though two years ago, I was so behind on my packing, Robyn and her mom drove up the night before to help me get it done. I’m in  better shape this time. I think.)

I know some (maybe most?) of the other Quills will be there too. What about the rest of you? Are there any other writers out there who will be heading to Orlando? If not, what is your favorite time of the year?

I’m about three days away from turning in book. This is the stage I love and hate. On one hand, it’s usually the first time after months of work that I can actually imagine that this thing I’ve been slaving over might someday be a real book. So, that’s uplifting, right?

On the other hand, I hate my books at this stage. I mean. Hate. Them.

I write my rough drafts very fast. And I never go back and edit or correct as I write. So sometimes I end up with … well, real crap. Don’t believe me? In my book that will be out in August, when I reread the rough draft I realized that every time I introduced a character, I compared them to a dog. There were pekinese, poodles, angry packs of alsatians. Okay, so there were no alsatians. But there were a lot of other dogs. Dozens.

In this book, it’s trot. People trot out examples. They trot out their emotions. Most of them even trot from place to place. It’s like a book about horses. On the bright side, it would make a great drinking game for college students.

Here’s the bad thing, I remember back in my days of unpublished-dommed, I remember reading a published novel from an author that I loved (still love in fact) and being irritated because everyone looped every where.

Now, I should add that I do extensive revisions before I even send my books to the editor. So theoretically I have time to fix all of these things. However I live in fear that I’m going to be rushed and leave in one too many dog metaphors or overly descriptive verbs. So here’s my question. As a reader, how much does that kind of thing bother you? I don’t want names or anything, but has that kind of ever ruined an otherwise decent book for you?

And don’t forget, everyone who comments will be eligible to win the Sony ereader!

Okay, so, yeah … we all know stalkers aren’t sexy. (Or funny. Yep, I know that. But stay with me here.)

I recently went onto iTunes and bought a playlist of ’80′s music. I’ve been in heaven. As a child of the ’80′s, I love all that cheesy pop. So today, I tooling around town with the radio cranked up singing along to some of my favorite tunes.

And then it hit me. All of the great romantic songs from the ’80′s are about stalkers.Previously, I’d thought of the ’80′s as an age of musical innocence. Okay, sure, there were plenty of sexual songs, but they were charming and romantic. Unimpinged  by the sexist and misogynistic undertones of Rap (yes, I’m openly biased against Rap) Seriously. Don’t believe me? Let’s review:

Centerfold by the J Geils Band (“I was shakin’ in my shoes/Whenever she flashed those baby-blues”)
867-5309/Jenny by the Tommy Tutone (“Jenny, Jenny you’re the girl for me/ You don’t know me but you make me so happy”)

Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran (“Stalked in the forest/ too close to hide/ I’ll be upon you by the moonlight”)

Don’t Stand so Close to Me by The Police (okay, so that one’s obvious)

Every Breath You Take also by The Police (clearly, they have issues)

Even my beloved Jess’s Girl (by Rick Springfield) has stalkerish undertones. I mean, he barely knows her and yet he’s obsessed. These are songs I loved when I was a kid. I still love them. But … well, they’re just clearly about stalkers. How could I have been so misled? Maybe it’s because longing is romantic. Yearning is sexy. And you can’t yearn for what you already have.

So what do you think? Are you there any songs you love that don’t stand up to too close scrutiny?

Here we are with Jim Butcher ... which is another I thing I have to thank her for, 'cause she introduced me to his books and now he's one of my favorite writers!

If you read this blog with any kind of regularity, you know that Robyn De Hart and I are critique partners. We read each other’s books before we ship them off to the editors. We provide feedback when necessary and that final boost to the ego it sometimes takes to get the courage to actually send it in. We also brainstorm and occasional help with research.

But in addition to being my critic partner, she’s also my best friend. Of course, that term is tricky because I also consider my husband and my sister best friends, but as any woman knows, each of those roles is unique and it really is possible to have three best friends.

Now, you may not care that we’re best friends–I mean, generally speaking, I don’t know anything about your friends. Not that I don’t want to, but …. well, Robyn is feeling under the weather today, so I thought today would be like a tribute blog. So that when she’s feeling better and checks the blog, she’ll know lots of people were thinking positive thoughts about her today.

With her mother, Hattie, the coolest mom in the world.

Here are four fun facts about Robyn De Hart and/or our friendship:

• We’ve been critiquing each others books for twelve years now.  We were critique partners before we were friends and  long before we were friends.
• When we met, nearly all my clothes were some shade of brown, black or a sort of muddy moss green. I didn’t think I looked good in color. So I walked around looking like one of those tree people from The Lords of the Rings. She took me shopping and made me buy something bright blue. Changed my life. Seriously.
• She was there at the birth of my daughter. She and The Professor spent like twelve hours at the hospital the night she was born. And went out for fast food at one in the morning so The Geek and I could have something to eat. That’s friendship.
• When my daughter was born, I got flowers delivered from like five people. When my son was born, I didn’t get squat. I was so sad about it. Then a few days later I got this beautiful basket of goodies from Robyn. It was so sweet and wonderful it totally made up for the fact that my mom decided not to “inconvenience” me with flowers. FYI, flowers are never an inconvenience. Gift baskets aren’t either.
• Once, when we first started hanging out, Robyn and I went to blockbuster to rent a movie and spent like four hours wandering around just talking about different movies we both love. The list is long.
• When we first started critiquing, she told me I had the handwriting of a serial killer. I haven’t let her live that one down. But now we critique on-line.
• When she sold her first book, she called to tell me and I was sitting in Taco Bell eating lunch with a book. I cried so much I think I scared other people in the restaurant. She sold Seduce Me to Grand Central Publishing five days after the birth of my son. Again, I cried. I remember getting her good news as vividly as I remember getting my own.

The truth is, this is sometimes a tough business … geez, it’s a tough world sometimes. I can’t imagine navigating it without her.

Right now, for the second year in a row, the family and I are in Atlanta. The Geek has to come for work, for the First Robotics competition. The kids I just come for the sightseeing and the room service. (That’s my one requirement if the Geek wants us to travel with him. I’ll haul the kids anywhere for unlimited room service.)

So here’s my brief list of things to love about Atlanta:

• The Georgia Aquarium — I know this isn’t a fair comparison, but it’s *so* much nicer than Sea World. Sea World is about two hours from my house. Yeah, it’s cool, but it’s packed and to see things, you have to walk for miles past ice cream stands, plushie animals and commemorative water bottles. The Georgia Aquarium is laid out so you can easily see it all and they have an amazing variety wildlife. True, you won’t get splashed by Shamu, but they do have program where you can snorkel or scuba dive with whale sharks. Haven’t done it yet, but it’s definitely on my list of must-dos.
• A fantastic Children’s Museum — It’s just around the corner from the Aquarium and a few blocks away from the hotel. The kids have a blast and I do too. There’s something very therapeutic about playing with Moon Sand.
• Pandas at the Zoo — Zoos are always great fun kids. And let’s face it, who doesn’t have a weakness for Pandas? Last year, when I showed my daughter pictures, she asked if we could get one as a pet if we got rid of our dogs.

Now here’s my short list of things I don’t love about Atlanta:

• Everything has Peachtree in the name. Malls, Marta stops, buildings. And there are about fifteen streets named Peachtree. As a tourist, it makes navigating very confusing. You look something up on-line and think, “Hey, that’s on Peachtree too. That must be right across the street from the hotel. Nope, it’s on the other side of town.” Seriously, even our cab driver was confused about where our hotel was.

But other than the Peachtree thing, this is a fantastic city. What’s your favorite city to visit?

We’ve been talking about Spring Fever this month, but I decided to talk more about the fever part of that, rather than the spring.
I’ve noticed a trend lately in romances, and I want to get some opinions on it. It seems like every time I turn around, I’m looking at a romance where the hero and heroine are “destined” to be together. This seems to be the case in a lot of paranormal romances in particular. The man just knows this particular woman is destined to become his mate and he has to convince her. Or in the case of some of the paranormal YA’s I’ve read, he knows they’re destined to be together, but resents her for it so he treats her badly for most of the book. (How healthy is that?)
Maybe Twilight is to blame. Maybe some woman just like the idea of a man loving them for no particular reason. Me, I like a romance that develops as the characters get to know each other. Slowly. Out of mutual appreciation of each other’s qualities, both good and bad.
Yes, love should make you feverish, but if it’s just some kind of fever that over comes you, then how do you know it won’t go away if your guy just takes a couple of aspirin?
What do you think? Are you a fan of the “I love you ’cause it’s my destiny?” Are there any books where you think it really works?

I have a serious weakness for cookies. They are my one absolute vice. I’m like a heroin addict. My drug of choice is actually chocolate chips cookies. I’m actually one of those people that prefers them raw, but about fifteen minutes out of the oven is a close second. But like the heroin addict who will do crack if nothing else is around, in a pinch, any cookies will do.

If the heroin’s addict first step to recovery is admitting they have a problem, then surely that’s true for a cookie monster, right? So here’s my embarrassing admission: Right now, I have three kinds of cookie dough in my freezer and twelve kinds of store bought cookies in the pantry. Twelve! Five of those are Girl Scout cookies. Let me clarify. I have five kinds of Girl Scout cookies. But a total of sixteen boxes. Seriously, it’s like I’m stockpiling for the apocalypse. And I don’t even have a Girl Scout in my immediate family.

I’ve recently joined Weight Watchers and decided it’s time to thin out the cookie supply in the pantry (and freezer). But I know I won’t be able to ditch the GS cookies. I just bought them! And they won’t be available next month. And … well, they just taste like childhood.

So what’s your favorite kind of Girl Scout cookie?

I’ve started doing yoga again with the Fraulein. If you don’t remember the pain of my previous bout of yoga with her, you can read about it here.

Previously, I went in the evening classes at this very trendy place in an overpriced neighborhood. Now, I’m going to the day class, which is still wonderful (and painful) but meets in a slightly dodgy strip mall in South Austin wedged between a vintage clothing store and a holistic medicine shop. It’s very yoga and very Austin.

The place used to be a storefront of some kind. Now, the bathrooms are unisex, but one was once obviously a women’s room and the other was obviously once the men’s room. In the room that was once the woman’s room there’s a sign on the wall. It starts with an apology for the age and vagaries of the plumbing. It goes on to list the things that can and can not be flushed due to the plumbing. It mentions the ways to best respect the Feng Shui of the room. It suggests things you might do to be respectful of future users of the bathroom.

In the bathroom that was previously a men’s room, there’s a sign that simply reads: Flush thoroughly.

I could elaborate and talk about how this illustrates the innate differences between men and women. But I think I’m just going to leave it there.