A while back the topic of discussion here at JQ was fairy tales, and I think it was Robyn who asked about our favorites. Many readers replied how much they love Cinderella — who wouldn’t want a fairy grandmother who could wave her wand and make everything better? And many are enthralled by the way love from Beauty transforms The Beast, which gives us hope that we can transform our significant other … maybe even get him to pick up his dirty socks. At the heart of every good romance is transformation, some form of growth for one or both protagonists.

Undoubtedly I read those fairy tales as a child and probably watched the movies but those stories, while powerful, don’t resonate with me all that much. The stories I loved, the books that became dog-eared from so much repeated reading, were more likely to have clever characters like Br’er Rabbit and Robin Hood. Not necessarily in the same book, mind you, but those are the sorts of stories I sought.

The same side of me that cracks up watching the wise-cracking Bugs Bunny outsmart Elmer Fudd just loves how Robin Hood outsmarts the Sheriff of Nottingham and his minions. Or Br’er Rabbit getting in trouble and then using his wits to get out of it. (Please, please don’t throw me in the briar patch.”)

Even in movies and TV, tricksters and clever plots are my favorite kinds of characters and storylines:The Hunt For Red October, The Thomas Crown Affair, Ocean’s 11, and of course all of the iterations of Robin Hood (even Men In Tights). Must-see-TV for me now is Leverage (Tuesdays at 10 on TNT) which is about high-tech crooks who steal from rich criminals and the corrupt and give to the downtrodden. Next week is the eagerly-anticipated return of Burn Notice on USA, where a disavowed spy uses his Special Ops training to help others.

Both shows require our intrepid heroes to outwit their opponents and improvise as they go along because things never go according to plan. Twists and turns abound. I love it that they often surprise me -– they zig when I expect them to zag. A memorable line from one of my all-time favorite clever shows, MacGyver, is spoken by Mac’s frequent nemesis, Murdoc: “No wonder I can’t defeat you – even you don’t know what you’re going to do next.” Or on the flipside, what happens is so meticulously planned and executed, like Mr. Crown’s art theft, it’s a thing of beauty.

Both forms of cleverness are a chess match. Move and counter-move.

When I grow up I want to be able to write clever chess matches.

Once I even researched the game of chess for a story. Put my new knowledge to a practical test by playing my husband’s nephew, who loved the game. Turns out I’m not a good chess player. Perhaps I’d get better if I had a lot more practice but it’s something that did not come naturally.

During the writing workshop I attended last weekend, at lunch several of us were discussing our mutual fandom of Timothy Hutton in general and Leverage in particular. I moaned about my desire to be able to write such clever plots. One gal said “It’s simple – don’t explain anything.” Which may help to some degree, but the problem is, first I have to come up with the clever stuff – the twists and turns, moves and counter-moves – to not explain.

Perhaps it’s like our workshop leader said about writing humor – you can or you can’t. It comes naturally or it doesn’t, and if you try to force it, it sounds forced. Often readers find some of my stuff almost as funny as I do, so perhaps I should be content with writing that and just watch and enjoy the clever plots and trickster characters that others create.

But maybe … if I keep searching I’ll come across the magic elixir — the workshop, mentor or how-to book — that will magically impart the ability to write clever stuff…

Elisabeth Naughton writes sexy romantic adventures for Dorchester. Her debut release, STOLEN FURY, the first in a trilogy, has been compared to both Indiana Jones and Romancing the Stone, and Publisher’s Weekly calls it “A rock solid debut.” Her second book, STOLEN HEAT, is set to release in August, 2009. Learn more about Elisabeth and her books at her website: www.elisabethnaughton.com

Thanks to the girls here at the Jaunty Quills for having me as a guest today. I’m thrilled to be here.

For those of you who don’t know me, my debut romantic suspense, STOLEN FURY, released just two weeks ago. The last month has been hectic, exciting, and scary all at the same time, but an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Long before I sold this first book, I used to envision publishing as a big glass skyscraper. Those of us “wannabe’s” were all stuck on the outside, peering in the through the shimmering glass at the party going on inside. Friends of ours – the ones with agents we longed to have as our own – could be seen milling around the lobby, socializing, making contacts, making progress. And though those of us toiling on the outside longed to be where they were, even they were looking elsewhere, up toward the glass enclosed elevators and each floor above where still others – our peers – could be seen having the time of their lives. In my mind, publishing was one great big party, and each floor, a level those of us below and outside longed to reach.

Silly, huh? But for someone on the outside looking in, that’s how it felt.

This past Sunday I ran my second half-marathon. I don’t know if any of you are runners, but there’s a point during a run at which your brain shuts down and all mental capacity switches over to simply focusing on telling your muscles to keep going. For me, this generally happens around mile nine, but yesterday, before I hit that point, I was remembering back to my first race and, ironically, comparing it to my publishing journey so far. And I realized something profound…publishing isn’t a glass skyscraper at all. But it is very much like the race I was running.

It’s the rare writer who one day decides, “I’ll write a book,” writes it and sells immediately. But even for those phenomenal writers who achieve that goal right out of the gate, the journey is the same. We write, we revise, we edit, we write again. We practice our craft and train, just like a runner trains for a race. And when we feel like we finally can “do it”, we start submitting. The race begins. Every request – for a partial, for a full; every contest final, every win…each one is a mile marker toward our ultimate goal of completing the race and being published. Some of us move faster through these first few miles, others of us may take months or even years, but those of us who are dedicated keep on pushing forward.

And then, when you feel you’ll never get there, something magical happens. You reach the turn. Someone wants to buy your book. You’re not yet published, but you know now you will get there. You suddenly have a burst of renewed energy. You work harder, longer, stronger. You can see the finish line in your mind’s eye. From here, every new experience is another mile marker passed: your first revision letter, your first set of line edits, your first cover! You struggle, toil slow down and speed up, and sometimes this part of the race feels longer than the first, like it will never end. Until you round the last bend, and there, just off in the distance, is the red ticker tape. Waiting for you to cross. You’ve worked so hard, gone through so much, and there, finally, the finish line.

When you cross, you feel not only excitement, but satisfaction. And something else. Something you didn’t expect. You don’t care who finished ahead of you. You don’t care what your time was or how long it took you to get here. All that matters is that you finally made it.

Yesterday, during my run, I realized the way I felt during my first half-marathon was very much akin to how I’ve felt with this first published book. There’s a high you get from the first one of each that can’t be recreated. Each subsequent finish is special, but with each one, a whole new set of concerns: Did I better my time/sales? Did I run/write better? Do I have as many people cheering for me at the end as I do now?

Like writers, every runner has different worries. Some focus on where they finish in relation to others, some are more concerned with bettering what they did the last time around. Still others are simply thrilled they were able to run and finish again at all. And also like writers, runners come in all shapes, sizes and varieties, and it’s those differences that make a race, and publishing in general, more fun to be a part of.

I’m savoring this first release, much the same way I savored my first half marathon. This book, STOLEN FURY, will always have a special place in my mind and heart, one because it’s a story I love, but also because I worked so hard to see it come to life. Will there be other races? You betcha. Will there be more books? Without a doubt. But none will ever be the same as this. Do I still see publishing as a glass skyscraper? No way. I see it as my own personal half-marathon, where how I run and reach the end is completely up to me.

How about you? Is there any one goal in your personal or professional life that you worked hard for and finally reached? And if you’ve repeated the journey, was it the same as that first time?

***

In honor of my release, one lucky commenter will receive an autographed copy of STOLEN FURY in a random drawing!

Also, I’m running a fun contest on my website until the 17th of January.

Seeking Fortune & Glory? Then enter and play!
Embark on your very own quest, partner up with a sexy treasure hunting guide and enter to win a $100 VISA gift card!

Have you ever found that your skills and sensibilities from one area of life spill over into another?

Recently my husband, toddler son and I were out driving, doing errands. To keep Daniel from getting restless we have several children’s CDs loaded in the truck’s stereo. I often sing along, and sing them a capella at other times he’s prone to being restless, like diaper changes. So we’re driving along, singing with the kiddie songs on the stereo. The next tune comes up and I quickly hit the Skip button.

“Why don’t you like that one?” my hubby asks. “Because it’s too stupid to sing,” says I. Living with a writer this many years, he immediately understood, and we both joined in the next song.

All readers and writers know about characters who are TSTL, that is, Too Stupid To Live. Like the chick in every slasher flick who hears a noise in the basement and goes down the stairs with only a candle to investigate, even though the storm outside just knocked out the power and earlier she heard on the news there’s an escaped killer in the vicinity. You know she’s going to meet an untimely demise because she is just too stupid to live.

The song I skipped was TSTS, too stupid to sing. It’s about kittens who’ve lost their mittens. Okay, I’ll allow that kittens might have mittens and young’uns are certainly prone to losing things, and Mom was within her rights to punish them by withholding pie. Then the kittens find their mittens. Yea! So then — and here’s the part that drives me crazy -– they put their mittens ON to eat pie. (Even in the very proper Regency, at a dinner party you took your gloves OFF to eat.) That’s bad enough, but then Mom gets upset the kittens soiled their mittens. Well, duh, of course the mittens got soiled when the wearers ate dessert. Seriously, what did Mom expect? I’ve often thought of taking my son’s shirt off during meals just to keep from getting ravioli sauce all over his sleeves. A bib only covers so much, y’know.

There are some songs I don’t skip even though we’ve already heard them ten times today, because they tell a good story. Yep, even in kiddie songs I want a good story. Like Mary and her lamb, for example. It followed her to school one day, which was against the rules. It made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school, and so the teacher turned it out, but still it waited patiently about ’til Mary did appear. Why does the lamb love Mary so, the eager children cried? Why, Mary loves the lamb you know, the teacher did reply.

See, it’s a love story, and the lyricist used good “show, don’t tell” technique.

My sensibilities as a writer influence the music my son gets to hear. They’ll undoubtedly affect the books he gets to read, too, though for now he’s mostly into touch-and-feel board books, which really don’t have a story, just cool special effects.

Have you ever found that your skills and sensibilities from one area of life spill over into another?

Did everyone have a great holiday weekend? Tired of turkey yet? How about shopping — get any fabulous Black Friday deals?

Now that T-day has been paid respect, I can take a deep breath and get into the Christmas holiday. I like to acknowledge Halloween and Thanksgiving before moving on.

Last year for the first time ever I did the getting in line at 4 a.m. thing to get a great deal on a couple GPS units. With a newborn in the house I was awake anyway, and since I bundled up warm enough (for once, it wasn’t raining) it was actually kind of fun. Interesting camaraderie with those waiting in line, too — I can see why some people do this every year. My feet hurt by the time I finally got in the store, but saving $300 made it better. I later learned a friend was about 200 hundred people ahead of me, getting a great deal on a flat screen TV.

This year, I slept in. We’re holding off on big-ticket purchases, and fighting those huge early crowds for ten to twenty bucks in savings just wasn’t worth it. In fact, I’m making most of my gifts this year. I already have most of the materials on hand, just need a few bits and bobs. There were big crowds and long lines at the fabric and crafts store Saturday, but everyone was polite and patient, and one shopper even gave me a coupon I’d forgotten to clip.

Driving home, I saw my first Christmas tree of the season, tied to the roof of an SUV like an urban version of a hunting trophy. I had a little pang of sadness since we’ve decided not to put our tree up this year. A toddler who doesn’t quite understand “no” yet + a six foot tree covered with twinkling lights and pretty ornaments = recipe for disaster. Or at least a big mess. By next year we should be okay, since most of our ornaments are unbreakable from having to be cat-proof all these years.

Hard to believe, but the Christmas tree is a relatively new tradition. My Regency characters have never had one. In 1816 England, having a cut evergreen indoors and decorating it with candles, ribbons, perhaps apples and candy, was still new, practiced mainly by the Royal family. Queen Charlotte brought many of her German traditions with her, and Christmas trees in Germany go back to at least the 1500s. But the practice really didn’t become widespread until after this drawing circulated in 1848 showing Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and their children gathered around a candlelit tree. Families then began following the trend in England and the US.

I remember the color wheel in front of our tree in the 70s, casting red, yellow, blue and green light over the tree that was already draped with multi-colored light strands plus several packages of tinsel to simulate icicles. I can hear Cheech and Chong back in the day saying “wow, man,” and gazing at it for hours because it was pretty captivating even if you were sober. My husband and I never used them because of the hazard to our cats, but I just found out the beautiful icicles I loved as a kid were made with lead. Ugh.

We’ve never had a flocked tree, coated to simulate snow. I thought artificial trees were preposterous and maybe even blasphemous until I developed bad allergies. Having the perfect size, shape and species tree stored under the bed, ready to pull out at any time, eliminates what used to be one of the most stressful and argumentative aspects of the holiday. And no sneezing or runny nose.

A few years ago, it was the thing to have an upside down tree. Is that still in? We never followed the trend of hanging icicle lights on the house, either. Just a simple, single strand along the roof line.

What about you? Traditional? Trendy? Skip it?

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

Ever notice how you see different details when you watch a favorite movie again or re-read the same book? Same holds true for workshops. You can hear the same lesson over and over and each time you’ll get something new out of it depending on where you are and what you need.

Last weekend I attended a plotting retreat with five other writers, at a cabin several hours away. Since this was the first time leaving my baby overnight and with other things going on with my family, not to mention a transmission leak in my ’65 Tempest, I wasn’t certain I’d be able to go until I actually pulled out of the driveway. Usually the drive to a retreat is a chance to get our chatting out of the way before writing, but this time I was alone, though I had company for the return trip.

So I’m cruising down the road, enjoying my car which I haven’t been able to drive in far too long because of the aforementioned leak that made it more of a cat perch in the garage than mode of transportation. I’ve got my favorite classic rock station blasting from the boom box on the seat beside me, when I realize the road I’m on and the highway I’m supposed to turn onto don’t actually intersect.

I missed a turn, about 20 miles ago. Should I turn back? I pull over and consult the map. The road I’m on is heading in the general direction I want to go and will … eventually … get me to my destination. I press on. There’s no radio reception here so I pop in a workshop tape. The road narrows then narrows again as we wind through the forest at the foot of Mt. Hood, surrounded by soaring evergreens dripping rainwater, a subdued background for brilliant pops of yellow, orange and flaming red fall foliage.

And I’m mesmerized by the workshop tape. Susan Mallery, on How to Write More. When the session was recorded live, I was sitting on the floor in front because it was SRO even before she started. But that was six years ago, and I’d forgotten much of the content. What I did remember was her method of increasing your page production. That’s what had captivated me because at that point I’d been working on the same manuscript for almost three years — a blazing fast pace compared to the four years to complete my first manuscript.

Because I’ve been struggling to produce pages since becoming a mom, I needed a refresher. This time I was captivated by an entirely different part of her presentation – her strong recommendation, and explanation of how — to have a schedule. A written plan of what you’re going to write (or revise or copyedit or propose, etc.) each work session, with time scheduled in for vacation, family emergencies, and play days for when you just don’t wanna. You have a plan with measurable, finite goals.

Before, just the idea of a written schedule gave me the heebie-jeebies. But Johnson & Johnson aren’t kidding when their ads say having a baby changes everything, because now I rely on schedules to keep my sanity, to track all the appointments for a toddler, husband and aging parents, as well as my own obligations. A major part of the lesson that I completely disregarded the first few times around is now the most helpful part for me. Amazing.

This idea might actually work. The baby’s sleep schedule recently changed slightly, giving me a tiny new window of free time most days, and now I have a plan to make the most of it. I was so excited I immediately listened to the tape again because hey, I had the time. I’ve never been so happy to have missed a turn.

I haven’t written the schedule yet (it’s just in my head so far) but as of today I’m 187 words ahead of my goal. Oh, and the retreat was productive, too. Plotted a really fun five-book series.

Have you ever had an experience like this? The new lesson learned, not the missed turn. Or either, I suppose.

“I’m not a pirate. I’m an acquisitions agent and salvage specialist. The men with me are union laborers. The ship was burning when we found it. The rum was already gone.”

Arr, matey! Know ye that today be Talk Like a Pirate Day? (Didn’t know? Check out http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html but remember to come back here.)

As regular readers of this blog know, I have a fondness for men of the sea, one pirate in particular, so of course I can’t let this holiday pass without comment. I dislike clichés so I’ll spare you any more cheesy fake pirate talk. How about some truths instead?

When I was researching for Kiss From A Rogue, I found a great deal more info is available on pirates than smugglers. Much of what the public thinks about pirates today can be traced directly back to Robert Louis Stevenson, J.M. Barrie, and Hollywood.

Treasure Island, published in 1883, introduced treasure maps, buried plunder, parrots, wooden legs, eye patches, and “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest.” In reality, pirates didn’t have treasure to bury because for the most part, they spent their loot on drink and feminine company as soon as they got to port. (One would hope they also sprang for fresh food and a bath, too.) Monkeys were more common souvenirs of trips to the tropics than parrots.

J.M. Barrie introduced a few more of what would become clichés with Peter Pan in 1904, especially tricorn hats adorned with skull and crossbones symbols.

Let’s salute Hollywood’s contribution of cliches. Douglas Fairbanks Sr., in The Black Pirate in 1926, was probably the first pirate to stick a knife in a sail and slide down to the deck on it. Orlando Bloom looked pretty good doing that in Dead Man’s Chest, too. Walking the plank? Real pirates were much more likely to subject prisoners to pistol target practice or other forms of torture.

But we can’t blame all the clichés on the aforementioned – novelists, poets and playwrights have been romanticizing these nautical thieves and killers with questionable hygiene practices since at least 1684, when writer Alexander Exquemelin conducted research by living and working with his subjects — taking part in pirate raids — and wrote Buccaneers of America, which became a runaway bestseller.

Piracy has existed since man first started going to sea in dugout canoes, but most of what comes to mind when we think of pirates is from the Golden Age of Piracy, which only lasted from 1690 to 1730. Most of the pirates the average person could name were active during just one decade, 1714-1724. And most people don’t think of female pirates, other than maybe Ann Bonny and Mary Read – they’ve likely never even heard of the Chinese female pirate captain Cheng I Sao. After her husband’s death in a gale in 1807, she took over his fleet of 400 ships and 70,000 sailors, and lived to age 60.

Fun pirate facts:
Gold hoop earrings. These served a dual purpose. Up until early Victorian days many people, including doctors, believed piercing the ear could improve one’s eyesight. Being able to see land and potential prey as soon as possible was a very good thing. Most sailors purposely did not know how to swim – they’d rather drown right away than be live food for sharks in the event of a disaster. If their body washed up on shore, the solid gold hoop earring was payment to assure they’d receive a decent burial.

Grog. British Admiral Edmond Vernon (1684-1757) wore a grogram cloak, giving rise to his nickname Old Grog. In 1740 he ordered his sailors’ twice-daily ration of rum to be diluted, supposedly after griping that most sailors had joined up mainly for the free rum. Sailors were generally issued two rations of alcohol and one pound of hardtack per day in addition to whatever the cook served up. (Remember that back then fresh, potable water was at a premium.) Some navies used whiskey while the British generally served rum.

Democracy. Those serving on board pirate ships lived in a true democratic society, possibly some of the earliest recorded. Everyone was entitled to a share of the plunder based on his rank and contribution. If the majority did not like the captain, he was likely to be, ahem, voted out of office.

Honor among thieves. Anyone who’s watched the Pirates of the Caribbean movies has heard a reference to the Pirate’s Code, a set of rules for conduct. Hollywood didn’t make this one up. Most pirate crews did indeed draw up a set of rules, and one of those surviving was written by Bartholomew Roberts. Many crews adapted his version rather than draft their own. The rules were mostly to avoid disputes over the division of plunder and the behavior expected of crew members, but they often included provisions for compensating those injured in battle. Losing a limb was worth “800 pieces of eight from the common stock,” according to Roberts.

I don’t know about the beads, braids, dreads and eyeliner, and the hat is questionable in the warm Carribean, but the scarf is very authentic. Headcovering was vital, especially in the tropics. (Btw, most of the pistols in the three Pirates movies are props or replicas, but Captain Jack’s barker, shown here, is the real deal. His was made in the 18th century and bought by Disney from an antiques dealer.)

One last thing, just for fun. Everyone does things to come up with pirate names (or your soap opera name, porn star name, etc.) but this was the first time I’d seen a way to come up with the name for your pirate ship. Scroll down the page a bit at http://www.talklikeapirate.com/bestofslappy.html#lovelorn
My ship is Capacious Hazard. What’s yours?

Recently a member of our local RWA chapter forwarded a link to a web site, urging us to go to it and vote. Usually I don’t follow up on that stuff but this one caught my attention. www2.firstbook.org is holding a contest of sorts, and the winning state will receive a donation of 50,000 books for kids in need. (Voting closes Sept. 15.) Getting kids started on reading is a subject near to my heart and yours too, I’m guessing, since you’re reading this blog.

Of course I voted for my state but I won’t be offended if you vote for yours. As you cast your vote, they ask which book first got you hooked on reading. Several celebrities have posted their fave and why. Interesting reading.

This got me pondering which book got me hooked on reading. Shall we all take a stroll down Memory Lane?

My first thought was The Pirate of Hitchfield Manor – I still have a very dog-eared copy of this tale of a modern day guy who switches places with his ancestor from ten generations ago, a sailor. But I discovered that one in 7th grade, so let’s go back farther.

In late grade school I took a brief break from mass market titles by the likes of Mario Puzo, Alistair MacLean and Stephen King (after my mom took away Jaws, I often hid my books from her) to wander in more age-appropriate Judy Blume territory, such as Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. I’d already devoured the school’s Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew collections.

From early grade school I have fond memories of the Encyclopedia Brown series and books like The Shaggy D.A. as well as a beloved hardcover collection of Brer Rabbit stories. (“Do anything you want with me, but please don’t throw me in that briar patch!” Snort.) For our class’s weekly trip to the library, I remember most classmates struggling to find even one book they wanted to read, while I juggled an armload because there were so many stories to read, so many fictional places to go. At each school invariably I would reach the stage of going alphabetically, book by book, through the entire fiction collection to make sure I hadn’t missed any.

Some of the earliest books I can remember devouring on my own featured Eddie and his friends. Eddie’s Pay Dirt by Carolyn Haywood, anyone? How about the time Eddie was determined to win a watermelon eating contest by cheating, but saved the wrong color of watermelon seeds? I still think of that now and then when we eat watermelon, and it’s been a few years ::cough, cough:: since I read it. Beverly Cleary and Carolyn Haywood’s creations kept me company for many, many happy hours. It’s very cool to now live in the town where Cleary set her stories and recognize the street names.

But apparently even that early on I was already hooked, because these tales were just part of a succession of them. Was there one book, one tale that so captured my fancy I was forevermore hooked? I told my husband I was trying to remember if there was one book in particular that got me hooked on reading, and he replied “You were born that way.”

So, were you born that way, too? Do you recall which books made you a reader?

It’s summertime, and you know what that means – garage sales!

Maybe this is a redneck, lowbrow thing, and those with bigger paychecks sniff and turn their head, but I love cruising garage sales, yard sales, estate sales, whatever sales. Give me a handwritten cardboard sign tacked to a telephone pole on a street corner and I’m there. Trying to follow the signs reminds me of scavenger hunts. (But it really irks me when the signs are left up long after the sale, or they’re too faint/small print for me to read at 30 mph, or there’s one sign on the corner of the main street but none visible after that to lead me to the actual sale. I hate a tease.)

Maybe it’s my frugal nature, maybe it’s the treasure hunt aspect. You never know what you’ll find — it’s true about one man’s junk being another man’s treasure. And it certainly makes sense to buy shorts and tees for twenty-five cents each than to pay full retail price when they’re only going to fit my growing son for a few months. It’s a win/win — the mom I bought them from cleared out closets and got a little money back on her investment, and I was able to buy a few more toys with the money we saved. (Yes, it turns out I have a weakness for buying toys. Who knew?)

Maybe buying used isn’t so low-brow. I heard Terri Hatcher (of Desperate Housewives fame) describe her favorite way to spend time with her daughter on Saturday mornings was to get juice and muffins and then go garage sale-ing. Think the garage sales are a little different in Malibu?

Try to picture a yard sale being held in Grosevenor Square, London, during the Regency.

Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? When Lord and Lady Deep-Pockets no longer had need of household items, the knick-knacks and such were usually stored in the attic or cellar, or handed off to servants and poor relations. They could teach us a thing or two about reduce, reuse and recycle.

For example, when Lady Deep-Pockets ordered a new ball gown, the modiste’s assistants might be given the scraps of leftover fabric and trim for their own wardrobe creations. After Lady D-P deemed her fabulous new gown to have been worn too many times (sometimes it was only one wearing, depending on the depth of Lord D-P’s pockets) she might pass it on to her lady’s maid.

The maid would modify the gown as needed so that it wasn’t too fancy for someone in her place. Any lace or other trim she had to remove was used to spruce up other items in her wardrobe.

When the dress became too worn or stained for my lady’s maid or she simply tired of it, it was handed down to someone lower in the household — perhaps to the scullery maid to wear to church or at home on her half-day off.

When the garment could no longer be taken in or let out or patched or re-trimmed to hide stains, it would finally be sold to the rag and bone man — if it wasn’t used for making quilts, rag rugs, or otherwise dismantled. He would in turn sell it to a mill so it could be used for making paper, which might be purchased by Lord D-P’s secretary. Lady D-P could then take a sheet of that paper to write a letter to her younger sister who did not marry as well. If Lady D-P’s sister did not treasure every word of advice and gloating from big sis, she might use the paper for — um, let’s just say the chamber pot is involved — and then the paper would be burned for fuel or added to the composting pile in the garden.

Which all goes to explain why there are so few items of clothing from certain eras in museums and other collections for us to study – they were literally worn to pieces. So when my husband teases me about a favorite shirt I refuse to part with that has stains and tiny holes and is stretched out and literally coming apart at the seams to the point I’d be embarrassed to answer the door while wearing it … I’m saving it for posterity.

You never know where your inspiration will come from. I once heard a quote that really struck home; alas I can’t remember to whom it was attributed: “A writer is someone on whom nothing is lost.”

Three years ago the guest speaker at our RWA chapter meeting was a former Navy Seal. Since I write historical fiction, you might think there was nothing in his presentation that would be of use in my writing. You’d be wrong. When he was discussing Seal training techniques, he gave me a fabulous idea for how to almost kill my Regency hero and then save his life.

When I found out the guest speakers at this month’s chapter meeting were two firemen and a police officer, I arrived early so I wouldn’t miss a thing.

Corny but true: we laughed and we cried. It gave me chills listening to their stories, how they very matter-of-factly put their lives on the line for complete strangers. Roger is former Army, now with the state troopers. Marc is a volunteer firefighter. John, a firefighter originally from Manhattan, moved to the Portland area because of his wife’s job in late summer 2001. He lost a lot of friends on September 11th. As experienced firefighters, they recognized they were going into a bad situation. Before leading his men up the stairs, one captain hugged John’s former captain, kissed him on the cheek, and said “I probably won’t see you again.” John’s friend survived to tell the tale; the other captain was working on the 80th floor when the building collapsed.

These are tough guys — they can climb 80 flights of stairs wearing/carrying 60 pounds of gear and equipment, rescue passengers from a burning vehicle, face down career criminals who would rather die than go to jail — who are also unafraid to show emotion. Choked up with emotion, Marc had to pause several times telling one of his experiences; Roger laughed often but had to dab at his eyes more than once, too. They’re the kind of heroes we write about in romance novels — the tough guy you can trust to save your life, who’s a marshmallow inside.

I’m not sure yet what I’ll use in my writing but I did take away two facts that surprised me.

First: 77 percent of the firefighters in the US are volunteers. Having spent my teen years in a small rural town, I was familiar with the fire department’s siren calling volunteers to the station to respond to an emergency — I often prayed that we’d never need them, since there was a delay in actually getting the fire truck to a fire — but I had no idea that urban and suburban fire departments heavily rely on volunteers, too.

Second: for a firefighter, the most dangerous part of responding to a call is not when he’s up on the roof chopping a vent hole, nor is it conducting a room by room search of a burning building, nor is it fighting the blaze or climbing a ladder to rescue someone from an upper story. No, the most dangerous part of responding to a call is simply getting there.

Most motorists pull off to the side when they hear the siren and see the lights flashing. As soon as the fire truck goes by, they pull back into traffic. What most motorists don’t realize is that there are usually three or more emergency vehicles responding to each call. Far too often, drivers pull back into traffic too soon, smack into the path of another emergency vehicle. In Hillsboro, for example, there are a minimum of four vehicles that respond to each 911 fire call — a fire engine, rescue vehicle, an ambulance, and a police officer. They may come from different directions but at some point they will converge.

The meeting gave me a whole new perspective on those who protect and serve. We smile and wave at firefighters, and now after hearing Roger, I’ll try to remember to smile and wave at police officers, too … with all five fingers.

My friend Norma is an ant. Remember the old story about how the grasshopper played all summer while the ant labored to fill his pantry for the coming lean months?

Norma and her husband have followed our church leaders’ advice to have a year’s worth of food and other necessities on hand to be prepared for adversity. You don’t need an earthquake or storm of biblical proportion to see where it would be handy to be self-sufficient – ask anyone who’s been laid off, or tucked at home during a three-day ice storm while “grasshoppers” in panic mode strip store shelves bare.

A few years ago when Norma’s husband was starting a business and all seven of their kids were still living at home, they needed to pinch pennies like crazy. They decided to live off their food storage. For two years all they bought at grocery stores was butter and eggs. They grew a garden, visited U-pick farms, ground their own wheat for bread, worked the wheat gluten into a protein substitute, made their own yogurt and yoga cheese… you get the idea. Norma was pretty savvy to start with in order to pull it off, and shared the additional knowledge and recipes gained from the experience by self-publishing a book titled Store Food!

I hope we never have to be that … dedicated … but I’m trying to learn from Norma. I’ve recently learned there’s nothing like having a baby to make you domestic. Why, just the other night I cooked dinner. Popped the fish sticks in the oven and fluffed the couscous all by myself. I may even cook supper from scratch someday.

We’re trying especially hard to be ants this year. We’re stocking up on essentials. Sometimes in bulk if we find a good deal, sometimes just an extra jar of peanut butter or whatever while it’s on sale. Later this month we’ll can peaches (last year we didn’t have the energy but Daniel has eaten most of the previous year’s stockpile), and this fall we’ll juice the grapes that grow along our back fence, as usual. A lot of people are rediscovering the old-fashioned joys of home canning, for the frugality and so they know for sure what’s in their food.

Why is it especially important now to be frugal and prepared? For one, we have an extra mouth to feed (he’s eating real food now, not just milk). For another, we live in seriously uncertain times. This year is the first in many where the previous year’s wheat crop is completely gone before the next crop is harvested. And remember the panic about rice a few months back? I think we’re also feeling the effects of this spring’s flooding in the Midwest– much of the corn and other crops that weren’t lost to the rains are going into alternative fuels instead of grocery stores. Have you noticed how quickly food prices are rising? Don’t even get me started on skyrocketing fuel prices. According to the Wall Street Journal last week, Exxon and Shell each posted profits in excess of $11.5 billion last quarter. Un-freakin’-believeable.

And for the cherry on top, there are some scary rumblings about the flu strain we might face this winter – a really bad strain, as in 1918 pandemic bad. Some scientists are saying quarantines might be necessary to stem the spread.

All excellent reasons to be prepared. Could you survive a month at home with what’s in your pantry? I’m not panicking but I am preparing.

While you’re slaving over the steaming canner this summer, basking in the sexy, sultry look (i.e., frizzy hair and sticky, sweaty shirt) you can thank Napoleon Bonaparte and a French chef named Nicolas Appert. In 1795, Napoleon’s plans for world domination were hindered by the fact his armies outpaced their supply wagons, and the farms they passed through couldn’t provide adequate supplies of food year-round. The army needed to carry food with them that wouldn’t spoil. A reward of 12,000 francs was offered to whoever could develop a reliable method of food preservation. After 14 years of experimenting, Monsieur Appert hit on the technique of bringing food to a boil in a glass bottle before sealing it. He used a champagne bottle because its wide neck allowed for man-sized bites of meat and potatoes in stew.

So … are you an ant or grasshopper?