Top Ten List For Writer Performance Anxiety

Having received a phone call to let me know that my son's gall bladder exam has been found to be "abnormal" and a follow-up will be required, and the nurse alludes to a referral to a surgeon, all the normal anxieties of such information attack. Dizzyingly.

Not being given to high drama, it is best to put my emotional efforts into considering referrals, treatment courses, objectives, and, oh, yeah, my deadline in four days.

Along with the synopsis which was due last week.

Shall I mention the promise I made my children that I would not allow deadlines to seep over into June?

When I made that promise, I didn't anticipate the emotions and time detriment of the unknown world of pediatric gall issues, whatever they may be.

I find my insides quite tight with fear, from fear of the unknown, and the deadline specter. What to do, then?

Tina's Top Ten List For Writer Performance Anxiety

1. Wail on sympathetic friends. They feel for you, offer you the comforting shoulder, and alleviate your need to obsess over every detail within earshot of suffering child and suffering husband. This is his only son we're talking about, and the thought of a surgical instrument anywhere near his child is rendering him somewhat less than helpful.

2. Blog. It's a great mind-sweeper. And who cares if the blog stinks on ice? Maybe I'll work all the pedantic purple prose and palpitating pink peni--oops. Blogs don't kill good writing; writers do.

3. Begin to organize. I have to do both these things, so I should endeavor to do my best. If this is not possible, I will go back to number 1, with either Merlot or organic hot tea at hand. In direst moments of self-pity, Starbucks no-whip hot chocolate may be administered.

4. Take deep breaths. Exercise. Oh, who am I kidding? Like I'd really exercise right now. I want to cry, I want to get a pedicure, but exercise? Nah. Who do I think I am--Suzanne Somers?

5. Consider Suzanne Somers, actually. A Thighmaster might not be an intellectually heavy-weight way to deal with issues . . . however, I don't need equipment right now, but her sunny atttitude and positive spirit when dealing with issues could be a plus. Oprah Winfrey is another individual who radiates positive life force--despite her usually overly-agonizing choice of book club selections. Scatter lovely positive thought cards around the computer as well.

6. Classical music. Alternate with headbanging music. In darkest moments, harp. Or Pat Benatar. How did she ever pack so much vocal punch into that small, thin frame?

7. Stare at computer. Surely more stare time results in more words typed and less emotion frittered into the ozone. Emotion needs to be on paper, where it belongs! In fact, let's really turn the screws on the hero and heroine in a non-abusive sort of way, if there is such a thing from a writer's standpoint. Don't we actually find it secretly cathartic when we wring our characters from one point of disaster to another, watching them struck down to their very knees with agony? And then raising them to the heights of joy and pleasure, like well-trained and satisfied phoenixes?

8. Write sex scene. Act out sex scene with husband. Ah . . . the delights of cathartic intervention.

9. Delete number 8. While afternoon delight will be wonderful, it will take me away from the computer, and editors really just want the manuscript on time.

Finally, number 10. Remembering that this list has as much depth to it as David Letterman's nightly Top Ten routine, I'll just try to smile my way through it. Small goals, a page here and there between anxiety attacks, and diligent focus interspersed with some forced positive thinking may be the only way to gut this one out. Read list again, and remember, the writing community cherishes their dramatic writers who achieve much despite opium addictions and bloodletting.

Think how much more admirable I'll be if I do all of the above with only a few quarts of Starbucks hot chocolate--no whipped cream!


Currently listening to : A dull roar inside my skull
Currently reading: Johns Hopkins material
Currently cooking: Chinese stirfry
Current rage: Shiseido face tissues for when you're just too tired to do the nighttime makeup routine--they smell great!
Word of The Day: POSITIVE

Mama's Got A Screaming Doormat--redux, but one of my fave memories

I had a screaming doormat once, which was a wonderful invention. To explain the doormat, it must be understood that the scream which emitted from it was quite terrifying. Try screaming at the top of your lungs as if you're watching a B or even C grade horror flick, and you'll begin to sense the unease that the doormat created. AAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! it went, as if someone was being thrown from the top of a mountain AND seeing ghosts on the way down. Even worse was that my husband, Tim secreted the microphone behind the pumpkin, and then carefully laid a straw mat over the doormat to thoroughly disguise our mischievous mat. The postwoman was an unhappy victim. Even I fell prey to the mat. The first two days I owned the thing, I would go trotting out the front door, step on it, and a shattering scream would erupt. Curse words would yelp violently from my mouth as my heart beat a crazed tattoo.

Worse, it screamed in the night. The first night, I was petrified. I poked Tim, who ignored me, as he is the victim of many pokes, and as there are varying types of pokes, he's gotten to be a good screener of which pokes he should ignore and which require attention. But I said, "Tim! The doormat just screamed!"

He said, "It did not. Go back to sleep."

I lay in the darkness listening, then crept to the door to peer out. Nothing.

The next night we were asleep, and the doormat gave its high-pitched death-cry. "Tim!" I said, with an urgent poking. "The doormat just screamed!"

"It couldn't have," he said. "You're hearing things."

Now, Tim should know better than to doubt me on such things. Many years ago, when we lived on the other side of town, I heard a horrible noise in the night. "Tim!" I said, gasping for breath, "There's someone outside!"

"You heard something," he said, "Maybe dogs getting into the trashcan outside."

He delivers this wisdom while our hound, Shep, is at the foot of our bed, looking into the darkness, growling the guttural growl of a dog who is about to send someone to his maker.

I know two things: One, I did NOT hear dogs getting into trashcans, because a peep out my back window shows that all is well, and two, Tim is not going to investigate. But Shep is still growling low and concentrated, so I creep to the front door to peer cautiously into the darkness. I see a man standing over something long on the ground. My eyes adjust, and I realize it's a policeman. And he's writing something down.

Now I have the way to get Tim's attention. I go back into the bedroom. "Honey," I say firmly, "there is an officer outside, and something is in our front yard, approximately the length of a dead body, and the officer is writing a citation. You'll probably get to PAY for whatever it is that's lying in your front yard, since it is YOUR front yard."

Tim shoots from the bed and goes galloping to the front door. He confirms that, indeed, an officer is outside, and he is writing a ticket, report, or citation. Changing, he hurries out front to investigate.

I go back to bed. It is the day before Christmas Eve, after all, and I am pregnant with Dean. I need my sleep.

It turns out that the dead body is actually a bathtub which was being stolen from an abandoned home in our neighborhood but fell from the back of the truck, leaving the bathtub in great shatters in front of my house. What a nice Christmas lawn ornament, you say, and I say that's a story for another day.

So Tim knows not to ignore me when I say I hear something, and he finally goes to check on the mat, but there is nothing outside. What I discovered later, and quite by accident, is that the next-door-neighbors' cat had become enamored of my straw mat and wanted to sleep on it at night because he could sink his claws into it and have a nice scratch. He kept returning every night because he wanted to, it was his bed, and the hidden screaming doormat underneath was an inconvenience, I suppose, that he thought would one day go away.

The neighbors who brought their lawn chairs every night to sit on my lawn to watch the children play also became immune to the doormat's screams of agony.

The kids would run inside for a popsicle. AHHHHHHHHHHHH! screamed the mat.

The kids would run inside to throw away the popsicle stick. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The kids would run back outside. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

We had an older friend who loved to visit, but the doormat was just too much for him. We took pity on him and turned off the mat when he was visiting, and, frankly, he made us nervous with his constant jumping out of his chair every time a bloodcurdling howl erupted.

But I became quite attached to the mat, and every night when I heard the mat scream, I would lie in the dark and smile, knowing that all was well. It was the best security system I ever had.

Mockingbird Practice--redux

Goals are important. Nothing is going to happen without goals, unless I live in a constant state of luck, which I don't. A goal is a destination; without one, it's like a train leaving a station and saying, "Well, I'll get there eventually," if you haven't picked your destination point.

I'll never get there.

So I make goals for everything. Weight goals, excercise goals, writing goals, parenting goals . . . I'm a goalmonster. I love anything that helps me stay on track of those goals.

I love meeting my goals.

Once upon a time I dreamed of being published. That was my goal. That happened. But I never dreamed of publishing A Book. I dreamed of publishing 100 Books, or more. I planned on being Multi-Published much more than I ever considered having one book in print.

That was one of the few times I ever got mad at my husband over my writing. He was trying to be supportive, and after the selling of my first book, he said, "You know, lots of authors never sell a second book. You might not, either."
Red dots swam across my vision, like a cartoon character when they're mad. The thought had never ocurred to me, and I didn't like hearing it spoken aloud.
Now, there have been plenty of naysayers in my life: Tina won't graduate from college, Tina can't do this, blah, blah, so I began seeking out those persons who supported me. Supported my dreams and believed in me. Maybe even dreamed bigger than me for me.

Once there was a baby mockingbird in our yard. We had never seen such a small, fuzzy mockingbird. He had BIG things on his mind. Hop, hop, raise wings, hop, hop, raise wings, he went across our yard. It was amazing to watch, because he repeated the same motions over and over, with no interruption in the routine. Absolutely not one variation. Hop, hop, raise. Can you imagine those small black and white wings spreading from his body, pointing like chevrons toward the sky? Surely, I thought, he will hop, raise, and then hop. Or raise, hop, and raise.

He did not. But nothing was happening. There was no lift-off. We realized he was actually too young to fly, and that he must have fallen from a nest. But that made no sense, as he was clearly on a mission. Yet there were no parents around, we thought.

After going across my yard, he was tired, or maybe he was hiding from us. But he shrank up against a piece of metal edging, and we stayed back to watch. After a moment, he went into the bushes.

Seconds later, we saw a mockingbird adult swoop into the street, and peck a bug off the cement. It flew into the bushes. Another mockingbird joined. Dinner time, the rewards for effort well-done by this baby. He wasn't ready to fly, but he was practicing, working diligently toward his goal, exactly as his parents had told him: Hop, hop, raise. Practice, practice, goal.

Goals are the only way to get there. Keep yours in sight.

Much love to Fatin, Marcy, April, Teesh, Lorie, Jo, Heather and Nicki for your sweet notes yesterday. If I forgot anyone, forgive me! You are today's Sexy Readers!

Off to the hospital with my son!

Oh, and P.S.--thanks to Rae and Heather for telling me I had a setting on here where no one could post without being a member. I've turned it off--or Heather helped me to!! So feel free to post--or to write me at tsleonard@aol.com. I love getting all your thoughts.

Muse In A Bottle: Whiskey, Perfume, or Genie

I think the word Muse is almost too ephemeral to invoke. Is it a spirit? A state of being?

I am not knowledgable enough to know. I simply theorize that if I have a muse, some days she looks like Phyllis Diller. Some days she looks like Madame, the raunchy puppet with the wicked humor. I wish my muse would look like Audrey Hepburn, but I know that is too much to hope for. On a good day, my muse might resemble a flowing chocolate fountain in a handsome man's bedroom, but that is where dream and muse get somewhat confused.

So I must be satisfied with Phyllis Diller and Madame the bawdy puppet, because as a writer, I owe myself some honesty.

I introduce myself to my muse, wondering if this incandescent, inexplicable thing knows how much I respect it. But the muse refuses to be quantified, and instead, shapeshifts into a toy box. On close examination, I see that the toy box appears to be full of childhood memories. Before my curious eyes, the box turns into a treasure trove bursting with gems and gold and the crystalline memories of good friends. Breathless, I watch as the fabuluous trove turns into a gypsy sack of worn, embossed velvet, which is slung over my shoulder by a twined golden cord.

This is my muse. So what is it really, if it refuses to allow its substance to be captured by hewn whiskey barrel, graceful perfume bottle, or indulgent genie's domicile, where I might draw on it at will?

As my muse does not want to be fully known, I will not presume to try to name it. I think of a Tiffany's blue box tied with white ribbon, the treasured silver and gold Gucci clutch which was my stepmother's, and a bottle of wine called by the somewhat startling label name of Fat Bastard.

Fat Bastard is a wine with a quirky, fun and engaging personality, says a glowing review.

We must love our muse no matter what its appearance, or the startling form it takes when it finally deigns to be revealed. We are the writers, the conduit--and it is the Muse.

Today's Sexy Reader:

commentbox: I have #s 1 thru 7 of "Cowboys By The Dozen". Have you written the last five and if so, what are the titles? I can't find any after # 7. Thought I would ask, as I just got hooked on Western Romance and I love your 7 books that I found. Keep writing!

Thanks, Bobbie Garrett, for writing!

All the books of the Cowboys By The Dozen series, as well as a special anthology out next November called Christmas, Texas Style, are set to go. Release months: June, September, November, March '06, and May '06. Thank you for your kind words about the series.

Currently listening to : Russian museum website, have no idea what the song is, but when I want soothing, this is it! Happy to send link to anyone who enjoys classical music.
Currently reading: The Red Diary by Toni Blake (if your muse is feeling spicy)!
Currently cooking: Shrimp, rice and vegetables
Current rage: Starbucks hot chocolate, venti, no whipped cream
Word of The Day: SATISFIED

New story idea going up today! There will be five starting with CUPCAKE, one every Monday, and comments are welcome, as I am interested in writing only what readers love. Private email is fine, as is blog comment. Blogs for the next two days will be "redux," as I will be at the hospital with my son who needs to have some tests run.

* By the way and apropos of nothing, if there are wine drinkers on board, Fat Bastard winery has made charitable donations to breast cancer philanthropies for the past two years, which I admire. Website: www.fatbastard.com



BARELY THERE

Jane Honeywell took the black merry widow her younger sister, Cathy, handed her, wishing she had never opened her office door.
"What would you do," Cathy asked, "if the man of your dreams suddenly walked into the room? And he was stark naked save for a pair of black Calvins?"
Jane stared at the black merry widow, wondering what the satiny corset and naked men had to do with the work that was piled high on her desk. "Right now, I have designs to select for next season. I don't think I'd even notice the man of my dreams, sans clothes."
"Which shows you need a vacation, or at least an outlet for your creative frustration, and I am here to be your fairy godmother of creativity. I need a sub for a tiny little job tonight. Very small. You'll never notice the drain on your time."
Jane blinked. "If you're the fairy godmother and I'm the victim, who gets to wear the period-piece lingerie?"
"You do," her younger sister said. "You'll be the belle of the ball—actually, the bachelor party."
Jane sank into her leather office chair at the Barely There Shoe Designs company, picking up a pencil to show that the conversation had gone far enough. "I'll pretend you're not my sister at the moment, my poor, raving lunatic of a sister whose crayon drawings I once admired, though they were dreadful, and whose bathing suits I kept clean of sand when you insisted upon sitting in the sandbox, though you hated to be dirty. I have get back to work, Cathy."
"Jane, I need you to do this," Cathy said, sitting down across from her sister. "Besides, it will be good for you. You need a little spark of adventure."
Jane frowned before touching the very black, very sensuous lingerie gingerly on her desk. Its sheen glimmered teasingly in the light, daring her to be, well, daring. "Ask Dina."
Cathy shook her head at the mention of their middle sister. "Dina would never be brave enough to wear that. You, on the other hand, would. Best of all, you have the goods to put in it. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I am the most popular stripper-gram in town, or so I hear. It's the jazzy red hair."
"I doubt it." Jane shook her head. "I could never wear this. Not in front of a room full of drunk, horny men." Although she had to admit to a secret, wistful niggle of imaginary flight. She wouldn't be human if she didn't entertain the fantasy for just a second, would she?
"You're thinking about it!" Cathy exclaimed, clapping her hands.
"I'm wondering why you always come to me for sisterly rescue." She tweaked a strap of the merry widow between her fingers, thinking it really was a marvel of lace and construction. A woman couldn't help but feel outrageously sexy and desirable in such a costume.
And it was a costume, she mused. If she wore a wig and this, maybe even a black satin masquerade mask, she would feel unrecognizable and safe.
"I come to you because you're fun," Cathy said, laying the coup de grace on the desk next to the merry widow, a riding crop with a satiny bow attached to the end. "You need to meet men, anyway. You stay in this office far too much of the time, creating fabulous shoes that you never wear for anyone."
Jane dropped the strap and sat back in her chair. "A bachelor party is not the kind of place I would meet eligible men, even if that were on my to-do list."
"Oh, but it is," Cathy said with a grin. "None other than Senator Blackwell will be there."
Jane's eyebrows raised. "At a bachelor party?
"He placed the order himself," Cathy said. "For his son. He suggested a blonde, model-type in black to match the black tie wedding which is the next evening."
"Sure," Jane said. "It's customary to match strippers to the wedding ensemble. The bride chooses the colors, and the groom is faithful to the color scheme, at least."
"It's not stripping," Cathy said reasonably. "It's a strip-o-gram. Very different. All you have to do is show up, give the groom a kiss on the cheek and a very slight, playful tap on the rump with the crop—"
"Oh, no," Jane said. "Ask me to have your first-born child, but spanking a senator's son I cannot do. Did Senator Blackwell request this? Really?"
Cathy laughed. "You'll wear this little recorder in your earring—"
"Which I will forget about because I'll have crop issues," Jane interrupted. "Really, how does one do that, Cathy? What if he's a wienie and I tap him too hard? Perhaps he wants a harder spanking, and then what do I do? Remember when I apologized to the garage thief I maced?"
"He was stealing hubcaps," Cathy said. "The security guard was very grateful to you. They'd been trying to catch that nuisance for months."
"But I apologized."
"You're too nice," Cathy agreed. "It's first-born syndrome. You want everyone to like you."
Jane puckered her brows. "Take your merry widow. The door is over there. Use it." In front of her lay several sketches for shoes which would grace feet in two years—if she selected wisely. She had to approve some of the ideas in front of her so that production could begin. The designs were beautiful, but she had to admit to a secret feeling of needing a change. She, or the fashion?
Her gaze slid over to the merry widow.
"Aha!" Cathy exclaimed. "You're curious. Admit it."
"All right. I am. What's the deal?"
"It's murder," Cathy said. "Apparently, Senator Blackwell is under suspicion of murdering his maid. And we have to find out the why and what of his life."
"I like you better when you're undercover as a stripper-gram," Jane said. "I can deal with fantasy much better than the reality of your job. Murder is just not a word that goes with shoes, you know? I'm a business owner, a designer at heart." She let out a breath. "Cathy, I'd be scared to botch it."
"Nothing to botch. We'll be sitting in a stakeout van down the street, and you'll be dressed to kill in seriously sexy finery. If there's anything worth hearing, we'll hear it. You don't have to do anything except be hot as Marilyn Monroe for twenty minutes."
The conversation had gone from bad to worse, in Jane's opinion. The three sisters had not a thing in common, she decided, or she wouldn't be getting dragged into this latest scheme. Dina the schoolteacher wasn't an appropriate mark for Cathy's plan. "And if I mess the whole thing up? Then what? I've wasted valuable tax dollars for the city of Houston."
Cathy laughed. "There you go again, wanting everybody to be happy. To like you. Just take the lingerie, put on a pair of awesome shoes, maybe some fake eyelashes, and go dazzle some men."
"Mystery," Jane murmured. "That's what's missing from this collection. There's no sensual mystery, no air of hidden seduction in these sketches."
"Jane," Cathy said, "pay attention. I'm trying to set up a stakeout."
"All right," Jane said, "I need the practice of being a vamp. Then I'll be able to bring a hint of danger to the collection, and danger is what is missing. Hot, dangerous appeal."
"There you go!" Cathy exclaimed. "Don't forget the Superwoman earrings."
She took the golden swags from her sister. "Could they be any gaudier?"
"All eyes on you," Cathy said. "You're going to have so much fun. I almost wish I was you."
Jane narrowed her eyes on her sister. "Back to the part about the man of my dreams walking into the room in tiny black Calvins?"
"Oh," Cathy said. "They'll all be in suits. Sorry."
"Just checking," Jane said.
* * *
Dylan Montgomery checked his watch for the third time in five minutes, wondering how long he needed before he could escape the world's most boring bachelor party. He'd had a gin and tonic; he'd made proper conversation with Senator Blackwell. A more boring old stiff he'd never met, and his son wasn't much better. They had probably never had an original thought in their collective heads, and as a self-made tycoon, Dylan was all about original thoughts.
A cheer went up, and Dylan turned to face the front door, somewhat surprised by the woman who nervously entered the room. She was a looker, he thought, even if she did look silly as hell in the black get-up she was wearing. Jeez, she looked like his younger sister trying to be Elvira, only with half the costume. He grinned at the crop she flailed a bit uncertainly in front of her, wondering whose cocktail she was going to shatter with that bit of a leather stick. A laugh escaped him, and her eyes turned on him under the black satin mask she wore.
Slowly, she approached him, and the laugh hung in his throat. Dylan watched her, wondering what she would do next. For once, the part of him which appreciated original ideas was intrigued. Hell, she might be terrible at her job, but at least she had nerve.
Once she was within a foot of him, she stopped, giving him time to appreciate her. Twenty men stood around her, watching to see the show. Suddenly, Dylan's collar felt very hot. He looked at her fall of straight blonde hair and the impossibly blue eyes, then let his gaze travel insolently down to her bosom which was pushed high into the Victorian-age garment. Her legs were shapely and long—he liked long and shapely on a woman. The shoes she wore were high and pointed, with little bows that ended above each ankle. Very nice, he thought, before she walked around him in a semi-circle, checking him out as he'd been checking her out.
"Go ahead," he said, "look all you want. Let me know if you like what you see."
To his shock, she spanked him with her stupid crop. The men around him laughed and huzzahed, congratulating him and acting like buffoons, but as far as Dylan was concerned, the ball had been tossed right into his court—and he knew just how to play.
"Come on, sweetie," he said, hoisting the skirtless Elvira over his shoulder. Her legs flailed; she beat at his back, but he gave her a nice, flat-handed slap on the rump which delighted the audience as he carried her out to his car. "Let's take you and your little sex toy on a little drive."
"No," she said, struggling, "I don't go on rides. I'm a twenty-minute hire."
The valet brought his Mercedes around, trying to be discreet about the woman beating the back of his legs with her silly crop.
"May I help you, sir?" the valet asked.
"By all means. Take her toy and toss it in the trunk before she harms herself."
She gasped as the crop was snatched from her hand. Dylan took that moment to help her into his car. The valet closed her door, standing beside it while Dylan got into the drivers' side. He locked the doors, started the engine and pulled away. "Do us both a favor and take off your mask, sweetie. We'll both be more comfortable."
"No! Take me back at once! This is not part of my job description. I was supposed to walk in, give you a light tap on the buns, and leave. So stop the car!"
He laughed at her defiant tone. "Who told you to spank me?"
"Your father, you jerk! Now, take me back before I have the police department on you."
His brows rose. Now there was an original thought. Not many people threatened him, especially saucy blondes wearing very little. "Police department? And just for the record, I doubt my father hired you. He's in Rio with his new bride. The third, actually, but who's counting?"
She stared at him. "You are Senator Blackwell's son?"
"God forbid." He shuddered. "He would never have carried you off, I'm pretty certain. All rumors point to a preference for a gay lifestyle, so I don't think you'd be his cup of tea."
The vision in black satin stared at him, slowly taking off her earrings and putting them into her purse. Her mask followed, and he was surprised by how attractive she was. The senator must have gone double for this one, surely hoping for a quick change of heart on his son's behalf before tomorrow's same-sex marriage—Dylan could have told him to save his dough. Maybe the old man was in denial. Maybe he thought having a beautiful woman at the party made him look good, or kept up appearances for his son. Still, it was none of his business, though perhaps it was rude of him to drive off with the entertainment. "Don't undress yet," Dylan told her. "We're miles from my place. Actually, I'm not even sure I'm taking you to my place. I don't suppose you're a crazed stalker chick? Or a bored housewife supplementing her lifestyle with tawdry fantasies? You look innocent, but appearances can be deceiving."
"Oh, God," she said. "This is not happening to me."

Lovely, Precious Pieces Of China Creativity

Create is one of my favorite words in any form: Creation, creativity, creating, creates.

Inspire. Another favorite, and relating to creativity. Inspiration leads to creativity.Listening to my children at the dinner table the other night, with one eye on the clock in order to assess the earliest moment I could send them to bed, and one eye developing a rapid-fire tic, I felt jittery and anxious as they debated some sort of space gas in stars (the pronunciation and content I cannot recall), latin translation of something (of which I paid no mind), and commentary relating to the fact that the song in Whoville that the Whos sing sounds very much like Viking rowers groaning, "Oh-om, Oh-Om." They then began riffing old Monty Python shows verbatim.

I thought I would rip my hair out.

Later, as I thought about what the two of them were doing, I realized that in their own way, they were creating. We want the process to be orderly and tidy and something we can wrap our understanding around, but it is not.

The creative process is rather more fragile than that because it relates to many things, but for the sake of a non-lenghthy Blog, I want to focus on inspiration.

I listen to a set of tapes called Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting by Lynn Grabhorn. She likes to teach her listeners and readers that a person must dream in order to achieve. From an early age, she asserts, humans are taught not to dream, which leads to a lack of inspiring and dampens creativity.

There are a number of factors which play into this, but it's enough to say that Ms. Grabhorn urges us to think of the biggest, grandest star we can see in the sky and take a ride on it with our imagination.

Then I would say it is important that the lovely pieces of fertile creativity be nurtured and protected.

Many years ago I was in a friend's home. This friend created breathtaking pieces of china, painting them to dreamy perfection. I marveled at her talent, and reaching for my checkbook, drooled over the amazing assortment of beautiful expressions of a woman's inspiration.

"They're not for sale," she said with a smile.

"Not a single one?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No."

"But why?" I couldn't imagine not selling such wonderful pieces! This was what she did--she had pieces and pieces of beautiful things which lined many areas of her home on display.

"They're just for me," she said, "if I sold them, I would hamper my creativity. And when I die, it's written in my will that every piece must be smashed."

I gulped.

But those words illuminate the power of protecting the fragility and beauty of each person's creativity.

Word for the weekend: Beautify

Currently listening to: Music For Harp, Carol Tatum
Currently reading: WICKED, by Gregory Maguire
Current rage: Dior Addict Lip Fluid and Junior Mints
Today's recipes: Aloe Vera Juice hidden in diet lemon Snapple

Today's Sexy Reader:

I have just finished Archer's Angels and I loved the book. I immediately ordered Catching Calhoun (which is fortunatey still available) and pre-ordered Belonging to Bandera. Too bad that the other books are already out of print. Cowboys by the dozen is really a great series. Greetings from Germany
Daniela

Thank you, Daniela from Germany! It means a lot!

More Blog on Monday!

Getting In The Mood

For writers--and every living creature--confidence and creativity are important. Basic, core needs.

I was watching Rob Thomas and his new band sing on stage the other night, live on TV, as he promos his solo effort separate from Matchbox Twenty. How terribly difficult it must be to go out live, in front of all those people, both in the audience and beamed into homes around the world, and GET YOURSELF IN THE MOOD.

I can't imagine standing backstage, and then walking out under bright lights, stepping up to a microphone, and beginning to swing and sway like this is the hippest, coolest moment of your life. It must be like running the 400 without stretching your muscles.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, and I paraphrase, we must do the things of which we are most afraid.

I marvel at the kicker who goes out in the last second of the game and, knowing the win or loss is on his shoulders, kicks it straight through the uprights. It's all about confidence.

We must not listen to the voices which rob our confidence. As Shel Silverstein wrote:

Listen to the mustn'ts, child,
Listen to the don'ts,
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
The impossibles, the won'ts,
Listen to the never haves,
Then listen close to me--
Anything can happen, child, anything can be. (From Where The Sidewalk Ends)

Be confident.

Today's Sexy Reader:

Hi Tina,I finished Bandera's book last night and again it is a hit!I love the "Shocker" and can't wait to see what happens. It's too bad there is so many months between each books. Oh well, anticipation is the best part this series!Take care,Marie Brown

Thank you for writing, Marie!!

Currently listening to: Rob Thomas, of course, and baroque classic Francois Couperin, presented by Jacqueline du Pre.
Currently reading: A Girl Of The Limberlost by Gene Stratton Porter
Currently exercising: Not
Today's Recipes: Pickles for my son's breakfast. Yes, I am a good mom. :)
Word of the Day: CONFIDENCE

Dogs, Shoes, and Cowboys

Ideas are the fun part of writing, at least in my opinion! I like spinning and discarding, making character sketches, dreaming up motivations. This is where I focus on the reader--what does she want? What are her hopes and dreams? What makes her happy?

I sent my agent four ideas for "bigger" books, more commonly known as Single Title. She liked them all, and in a very nice compliment said, " I think your voice is one of your best assets, and it’s one that I think will translate to a very broad audience."

This is good news. I was quite worried about sending her an idea called Cupcake.

Brave Agent also writes, "Some people like cowboys, some people like shoes, some like dogs. What’s most important is that lighthearted, fun & sexy voice, which you already have."

With an enthusiastic agent who is not afraid of an author whose story seeds wander from shoes to dogs to cowboys, I can enjoy the process of creation. Plot, and more plot! I will attach a part of CUPCAKE here and look for signs of budding.

I did say some days would be ugly. But the garden always starts out hoping the gardener properly tends the soil first.

CUPCAKE
By Tina Sites Leonard

What Dr. Cami Peterson learned in early May was that everything she thought she knew no longer mattered. With no recommendations and no wedding ring on her finger, Cami quickly discovered upon moving into her mother's house in Stone Hollow, Texas, that "thirty" and "single" was tantamount to being ostracized, branded a slut, and left out of the weekly bingo game at Stella Findley's house.
Not that Cami really gave a damn about bingo. But she'd envisioned Stone Hollow to be a place of refuge, a place she desperately needed after her mother died. Grief-stricken at the sudden loss, she elected to move to the small town and fix up her small cottage as a way of healing.
Instead of healing, she found war declared upon her femininity, her womanhood, and goddamn it, probably her chocolate chip cookies, a la any good First Lady fisticuffs.
The real problem, Cami suspected, was none of those things. It was something far deeper, and more intangible. Mystical. Sexual and primal—and Cami admitted she had noticed the undercurrents when Jake Harding had come to welcome her to Stone Hollow.
Her mother had neglected to tell her about Jake Harding and the collective female possessiveness toward a man who appeared to own the town's population of women as his personal harem. Cami noticed that even the men nearly saluted Jake Harding when he strode into the viewing room at her mother's funeral.
"Striding is damnably annoying," Cami said, pulling at weeds in her mother's flower garden. The main presence in the garden was an overabundance of thick, deep-purple irises. There were way too many, and Cami intended to cut them back after this spring. They would probably grow more beautifully if they were separated and their leaves trimmed back. "He needs to be cut back."
The reason for her annoyance with Jake Harding—almost a sighed nickname when the women talked about him—was that he seemed to enjoy provoking animosity toward Cami with his constantly welcoming stance. If he would just leave her alone!
But in the tradition of good manners and chivalry, Jake was kind and tried to be helpful as she worked her way through her mother's things and assimilated herself to Stone Hollow. She had told him she didn't need any more help after a snide attack in the supermarket by a group of moms, all of whom had children with them. Cami had been taken unawares as she'd shopped for bananas and strawberries in a moment of self-reflective calm.
But when one of the mommies walked past, hissing, "Jake's too good for you," Cami had known the lace-edged, hydrangea-flowered hankie had been thrown down as a gauntlet. She was living amongst a tribe of women in a jungle known as sexual, and the only way to diminish the threat they perceived in her was, no doubt, to drive her from her mother's home and from the town.
Being different from the crowd in control was existing as a white swan in a pond of alligators, much like polishing her transcript in high school when she could have been drinking and having sex with pimply, grasping jocks, as every "normal" girl was doing.
She seemed to have a penchant for not existing within the comfort of the crowd. She had never pledged Tri-Delt, nor slept with a college TA as she compiled an impressive resume of doctoral letters after her name. In short, she lacked social skills of the sort which won a woman skirt power.
So, not being one for direct confrontation and yet not exactly a pansy, Cami had wheeled her basket over the woman's pedicured toe and continued blithely down the aisle, although just by telling a handsome man—a hunk, really-that she no longer required his services was a capitulation of sorts to the tribal warfare being waged upon her. The problem was, Jake Harding was a man born to make women drool and men respect. He was tall. Broad-shouldered. He smelled fabulous, whether he stopped by in the morning or in the evening after work. He wore jeans that showed his physique but which were confidently loose in the crotch.
In Jake's case, it was a natural assumption that he needed the extra material there. Just the thought of it brought a flush to Cami's cheeks and an embarrassing tightness to her nipples.
She was attracted to Jake. This was exactly what the Ladies of The Tribe feared, and which Cami was coming to understand. Every woman was fair game for Jake, and every man admired that—while keeping a tight eye on his own wife, daughter, or mother.
Yet Jake ignored the fact that Cami said she didn't need his assistance. It was almost as if those very words increased his solicitousness toward her, which, of course, was only exacerbating the animosity from the harem.
She settled her knees more comfortably on the gardening mat, wondering if she'd made a mistake in looking for connection to her mother's spirit by moving here.
And that's when she saw her bigger problem, sticking out from the overgrown bed of hawthorn bushes, pink azaleas, and deep-throated irises. Cami picked up the golden locket, wondering how anyone could have dropped something so lovely in her mother's garden. She opened it slowly and carefully, frowning at the pictures inside. One was of her mother—and the other of Jake Harding.

CUPCAKE
by Tina Sites Leonard
Synopsis

Dr. Cami Peterson believes that moving to Stone Hollow, Texas, after her mother's death will help her connect with the only family member she'd had. During her years of studying, she hadn't spent as much time with her mother as she'd wanted, though she had known that her mother was proud of her hard work. All she really knew was that her mother had moved to the small town three years ago, and seemed to enjoy living there.
But Stone Hollow doesn't turn out to be the refuge Cami thinks it will be. Her mother neglected to tell her about handsome Sheriff Jake Harding, who makes it his business to be the welcome wagon. His kindness to Cami is looked upon by the female residents of the town as threatening, as Cami is blond, single, and smart, and yet not savvy in the female game.
Nor is she all that experienced when it comes to men other than the requisite college sweetheart, but she does recognize that she is going to be another fallen heart for Jake. Sexually, he is a man who is hard to pass up, and yet, Cami can't see herself fitting into his hunkdom. His idea of womanhood is sheet-work, or at least, that's the impression she gets from the moms and other females who fawn on him.
This sexual tension—and self-discovery as Cami begins to realize that she lacks the conniving social skills needed to fit in—is disturbing, but more upsetting is the gold locket she finds in her mother's garden. The locket contains a picture of Jake and her mother.
In a drawer in the bedroom, Cami finds her mother's diary. This is closer than she'd ever expected to get to her mother, and she opens the black-bound diary with nervous fingers.
Cami discovers she is adopted, the daughter of her mother's deceased sister. Upset, she reads further, discovering that her mother and Jake had such a close friendship that he regarded her as a mother figure. This strikes a chord inside Cami, as she knows she didn't spend enough time with her mother. Apparently, Jake did.
To her shock, her mother writes that Jake would be a dream husband for Cami, but that Cami is too soft and too dreamy to live in Stone Hollow. Nor did her mother believe she could keep Jake when so many willing women adored him.
This conclusion bothers her. Jake Harding is the last man she would set eyes on in a marital sense. She would never feel comfortable with a man like him. Sexual repression is the result, perhaps, of being a nerd who pursued a doctorate in chemistry. It was a lonely, if intellectually gratifying, way of life.
Reading more, Cami discovers that her mother was a famous crime writer, though no one in the town knew it as she wrote under a pen name. Cami goes to a bookshelf in the parlor, finding title after title hidden behind the baby grand piano. Moreover, her mother's tales appear to be based on the town of Stone Hollow—with various groups bitingly disguised in her writing.
There are the Cupcake Queens, for instance, the gang of women who have been uncivil to Cami. In the journal, there are character sketches. Immediately, Cami recognizes Stella Findley, among others.
She also recognizes Sheriff Jake Harding.
Moreover, her mother also includes gossip in her notation. Cami learns that Stella is up to her eyeballs in hock, and that her fancy plantation house on the hill is in jeopardy. This is not so much a journal as it is a wise-eyed view of life in a small town and the key, perhaps, to Cami's survival.
The only thing her mother doesn't illuminate in the journal is how to deal with Jake. Learning that she is adopted has so shocked Cami that she skips over reading that her mother had a secret critique partner whom she thanks in her dedications. In fact, Cami is so startled by what she has learned about herself that she talks to Jake, feeling somewhat comfortable to do this knowing that her mother considered him a good friend.
Cami finds that Jake is the executor of her mother's will. Between the value of the cottage, and her mother's royalties, not to mention her own income, Cami is a woman of means. Jake also knew that she was adopted. He is so sympathetic and kind about this fact that Cami feels herself letting down her guard. She needs this comfort now, and he can be trusted, she knows, because her mother trusted him.
What Cami doesn't expect is the sensual journey Jake takes her on. Throwing caution to the wind in a moment of pained self-discovery, Cami lets Jake into her soul and he zeroes in on her weakness like a hungry lion. Everything that the Cupcake Queenies and other women sense about Jake is clearly obvious to Cami from the moment he undresses her.
He is deeply passionate, and insatiable. Never having seen herself as a woman men would want in such a sexually experimental way, Cami is drawn to the depth of Jake's desire for her.
In the morning, Cami knows that she has an education of a new kind. But her mother's written words haunt her. The Cupcake Queens, sensing a change in Cami's resolve, invite her to a welcoming luncheon. Cami goes to the teahouse, only to find a table laid for one, and a note with her name on it which reads Goodbye, Dr. Peterson.
Finding this to be a sophomoric stunt, Cami leaves, deciding to read her mother's journal more carefully, and some of her books. She is still reeling from discovering that her mother had such an extensive library, and that she'd won so many awards. Rereading the character notes, Cami easily recognizes Stella, and finds that Stella is most afraid of losing her house as it will expose her to ridicule.
Through an out-of-town realtor, Cami makes an anonymous bid for Stella's house. The offer is accepted, as Stella is glad to be able to say that a rich out-of-towner is buying her beautiful home so that she can move to something smaller.
When the closing goes through, Cami goes to the town council and proposes to turn the stately home into a private school for girls who are interested in an education primarily heavy in science and math.
This really upsets Stella—but Jake greatly approves of Cami's idea. He invites her out to his ranch and Cami goes, knowing full well the evening will be a sensual adventure. She has decided that it hurts no one if she indulges in these fantasies with the handsome sheriff. No one knows, after all. It is just one secret she is keeping among many.
But there is a greater secret which turns up the next day: Stella Findley is murdered and laid most embarrassingly to rest in the flower bed Cami's mother had so lovingly tended.
Unfortunately, Cami finds herself the target of suspicion. To satisfy questions of her whereabouts, Cami has to reveal that she was at Sheriff Harding's ranch the night before. The gossip and nastiness turns intense, and Cami remembers that her mother wrote that she was too soft to live in Stone Hollow.
As tempting as it is to turn from Jake, Cami remembers that her mother thought the two of them would be perfect for each other. She also knows, from her crash course in the cupcake jungle, that quitting is running and will only deepen the problem. Her dream of a girls' school in Stone Hollow would have to be forgotten.
And a selfish seed of survival blooms inside Cami: she is crazy about making love with Jake and she's not going to give up on it, no matter how much the women taunt her. In fact, she's not giving up anything, not her house, the school, or him.
If he decides to give up on her, fine. But she intends to keep making love with him in any adventurous position he determines. She will keep pushing for her school, and she will use her mother's journal to try to figure out who killed Stella.
Stella is a corpse which doesn't rest easy. Many people were afraid of her, and the power they thought her financial position brought her. Not to mention that she was the tiara of the queenies, so she commanded respect. She had loved Jake with all her soul, and never ceased trying to win him.
Win him back, Cami realizes, as she reads her mother's crime novels late one night. If her mother's words are true and not fiction, Jake and Stella had a torrid relationship which spanned three years. Stella wanted a wedding ring, and Jake wanted her. There was no compromise, and in the end, Stella ended up dead.
This is fiction, Cami reminds herself, her heart sinking. Jake wouldn't have hurt Stella. He is big and strong, but he is not capable of poisoning a woman and sending a shovel over and over into the soft earth of a flower garden to bury her.
Or is he? Suddenly, Cami knows that she has allowed their adventure to go on too long. Nothing good can come of the feelings which are growing in her heart for him. She has grown to love passion and desire, and the feel of him inside her.
When Cami accidentally discovers that Jake was her mother's critique partner for her crime novels, everything changes.

The First Day Of The Rest Of My Writing

Writing isn't exactly like opening up an arm vein for me, as a famous writer once said, but it has its craziness! Many of the moments are beautiful and just finding the right word to express something can be magic. When I read another writer's glorious creation, and I am held spellbound by their words and their story, it's like living in their world for just a little while. Alice In Wonderland, Gone With The Wind, Mama's Made Up Her Mind, The Runaway Bunny . . . and so many more expressed emotions that held me captivated. The first time I read the Outsiders, A Wrinkle In Time, and Island Of The Blue Dolphins--thousands more--I could barely move from the excitement of discovering new worlds. I can so well remember my mother telling me to put the book down and go outside to play!

So I learned I, too, loved the wonder of words. But publishing--that was a whole different beast! Rejection, excitement, doubting, rejoicing, panic, and craziness all have differing effects on the purity of the creativity. The best writers probably learn to balance the wonder of the words with the dilemma of trying to publish a work, and even after thirty books, I find it still presents a challenge!

Right now my journey takes me on a quest for new publishing houses, in order to be able to give my readers something new and sexy and sassy Tina Leonard! Talk about jumping off the ledge with no parachute! But blessed with a fabulous agent, supportive friends, and a trusting family, I think I'll find that place where I can begin to make that new kind of magic for my readers.

Writers, readers, booksellers, promotional gurus all share a bond. Readers are the reason to pan for that one best word and that memorable story, and writers understand that. Promo folks, editors, and booksellers are the wonderful link between the two. Readers are the spirit which drive this writer, and I've been lucky to get to know so many of mine over the years. I consider it the very best of shared sisterhood, and a blessing to bring joy to anyone who loves the beauty of words on an individual canvas.

I'm very excited to paint a new canvas! On my blog, I will share the wonderful moments, the agony of defeat, and submissions which never made it for the thousands of reasons books sometimes don't see publication. I hope you'll find my website, and my blog, fun and inspirational! Feel free to post comments, questions, and whatever else. Some days will doubtless be tearjerkers, some non-events, and some exciting.

Life is a journey! Share it with me!

Love, Tina