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Riding with the top down
Guilty Pleasures No, I'm not talking about the stash of chocolates I hide from my children. Or any of the other slightly naughty things that make life worth living. But, you see, my favorite basketball team is miserable this year. Rock bottom, maybe the worst team EVER miserable. Enjoying a game now and then is hardly a guilty pleasure. The problem is, it's affecting my mood. I know it's ridiculous. I know it's only a game. I've always felt vaguely befuddled and well, a bit sorry for, those who live and die by their local football team. In the grand scheme of things, it's just not that important, is it? Somehow, though, I can't quite get past it. I miss having that game to look forward to a couple of times a week. I try and avoid it, but get glum everytime I catch a glimpse of the sports page and last night's score. In the past, even if we lost, I'd at least get to enjoy the exuberant basketball love that is Kevin Garnett on a court, or the essential man-prettiness of Wally Szczerbiak. No more. Yeah, I can watch the Celtics, and often do, but it's not the same. No pride of ownership. This is not entirely new territory for me. In college, I was perhaps a bit too caught up in partner-swapping on General Hospital. Never could figure out why I cared so much, but oh, I did. Maybe even (shh!) skipped a class now and then so I didn't miss anything important. And now, I admit to checking out online gossip sights every once in a while, despite the fact that I know perfectly well I shouldn't care at all how many times Lindsey Lohan goes to rehab. So who's gonna admit their secret passion? The thing they know is not really as important as their heart keeps insisting it is? Susie
Happy New Year's I'm saying it a few hours early, because no way I'm making it 'til midnight. I'm planning to be asleep long before then, because there's snow and a mountain waiting for me tomorrow. Also, aren't you supposed to begin the year as you want to go on? For someone like me, who REALLY loves her 7-8 uninterrupted hours and doesn't get them nearly as often as she'd like (it's the uninterrupted part I have trouble with, and yes, IT'S MY KIDS' FAULT) blissful sleep seems like the prefect way to begin the year. But I'm debating whether I should make resolutions. Not that they haven't worked out for me in the past. I've only kept one, mind you, in 1991, but that turned into my first book, JOURNEY HOME, so it was a pretty good one. Usually I don't bother. No point in resolving to eat well/exercise/etc., because I resolve to eat well every single morning of my life. (I'm not confessing how seldom it works.) And I'm pretty happy with my exercise regimen; a long walk every morning in the fresh air in my beautiful neighborhood with a dog I adore, and two pilates classes a week with a bunch of women I enjoy. Good enough for me, a determined sweat-avoider. I could resolve to write, but I make that resolution every week day morning, too. No difference on Jan 1. So I think I'm going to resolve things that will make me happy. Happy is good. I'm going to read at least one book a month purely for fun. Not a spot of research or idea-searching allowed. I'm going to go on one trip with my ten year old alone. It might be a short one, but we did this for the first time this year and I adored it. I'm going to pick a day a week and call a friend. I really like my friends, but sometimes, caught up in the frantic everyday pace, a long time slips by without my talking to them. I miss them. Once a week, I get to try a new recipe. I realize this doesn't fall under "fun" for many of you, but I love cookbooks. Be happy to share any particularly successful ones, if any of you are interested. How about you. Oh, I'd love to hear the resolutions you make, but not just the "improve yourself" ones. I want to hear the "improve your life" ones, the ones you're going to do because they're going to make you happy. And how are you planning to "begin as you intend to go on?" Susie
Goofs in print I did proofs for my March book this week. (For those of you who haven't been exposed to this painful process, it's when they send you a copy of a book-to-come, unbound, but printed on the page exactly as it's supposed to look in print.) The problem is that, by this time, you've looked this book over, oh, approximately half a billion times, and you're so sick of it you can no longer be objective. So most of the time you're supposed to be looking for errors you're too busy moaning: "Boring! Boring! So the bad guy almost killed the good guy, and they jumped off a cliff and were rescued by giant flying amphibians! Boring!" (Okay, that was NOT my book, and forgive me if it resembles anybody else's. The point is that by this point EVERYTHING sounds boring.) The other problem is that you really are supposed to mark only typos and other glitches - you are reminded regularly by editorial that this is NOT the time to be rewriting. And, of course, I see things I'd love to rewrite on every page. This, btw, is also why I try very hard not to read books once they're printed. I really can't fix anything then, and it makes me nuts. That said, I caught a couple of biggies, beyond typos, this time. There was an action tag of a guy in a chair, only I forgot to have him sit down when he came in the room. Also, I had an outdoor scene where it was cool and pleasant one minute, hot a page later, and, while it IS Minnesota and that's perfectly plausible, I probably needed to make note of it one way or the other. So that was good. But sometimes I miss things despite my best efforts, mostly because my eyes have a habit of seeing on the page what I THOUGHT I wrote and not necessarily what I did write. Of course, once it's in print, some helpful person will tell you. The worst one that slipped by me: I forgot I'd gelded a horse early on in the book, and somehow he managed to miraculously regrow his parts by the next time he showed up, some several hundred pages later. (In my defense that was a long book, with a lot of characters, and at least none of her eight siblings had a sex change!) So, fellow authors, fess up . . . what got by you? Readers, you're welcome to contribute, too, the funny goofs you've found. (As long as they're in books that are unlikely to be recognized by any writers who stop by here regularly. I'm depending on your kindness; it's the holidays.)
Ho, ho, ho It snowed this morning. Didn't last long, but big, fluffy flakes that had my son (hatless and jacketless, of course) standing in the driveway with his face to the sky, cheering. I also glanced at the calendar. So the time is coming. The holidays, that is. Most of which will be at my house this year, because my two oldest work retail part-time and their schedules are easier if we take driving out the equation. I love the holidays, I really do. But I don't love the madness, the sense that I'm running as fast as I can to try and get everything done. So this year, I'm determined to pare it down. To keep the things that really matter, the things I truly enjoy, and get rid of the rest. So how do you do it? I've tried a couple of times to do the pre-made meals, and it just doesn't do it for me. Heating all that stuff up is almost as much work as cooking, and my stuffing and gravy are simply better. (Any suggestions on particular shortcuts that work great, easy dishes that are always a hit, are much appreciated.) I've happily given up much actual, in the flesh shopping. Thank Santa for the internet. A real life Christmas tree is non-negotiatiable. I'd rather not have one, or have a really tiny one, than have a fake. (This is a point of disagreement between me and the dh. Some time I'll tell you about the year of the Great Christmas Tree War.) But I'm thinking about not hauling out the other decorations; we just redecorated, and I'm still admiring my new decor. Hmm . . . I've mostly given up making Christmas cookies. I like to bake, but there's really nobody to eat them. (I refuse to consider calories on the actual days of the holidays, but we simply can't do that for a month. Not and still ski down the hill, rather than roll, when we head for the slopes after Christmas.) What about you? Any good hints and tips for making the next months memorable but not crazy? What's a "must" for you, and what have you let go of? Susie, who is reading a pile of Mary Balogh Christmas novellas. Is there anyone who does that better than she does?
By any other name... So I'm watching the baseball playoffs. I'm not a huge baseball fan, but I'll catch a game now and then, and my parents were over, so . . . I'm half paying attention, and glance up to see a scroll across the bottom of the screen: On deck: Coco Crisp. "Did I just see that guy's name is Coco Crisp?" "Yup," my dad says. Okay, so it's not his real name. It's Covelli Crisp. But I got to thinking . . . what's the wierdest name you've all ever known in real life? I know someone who named her son Skeeter. Not a nickname, the real, on the birth certificate name. I used to call my middle boy Sunshine. Because he was. Once, in line at a smoothie stand, the young guy manning the blender caught me, and gave me a sad scowl. "Please tell me that's not his real name." Nope. The heroine of my new book's real name is Wildflower Meadow. She changed it as soon as she could. To Ann. I was one of three Susans in my class when I started school. A bitty little school, with less than 20 people in a class. Swore I'd give my kids more unique names when I grew up . . . but when does unique veer over into wierd? (I was Susie growing up, tried to be a grown-up Susan for a few years. But there were three Susans in my writing group when I joined, and something like eight at my first publisher, so I gave up and went back to Susie.) So what's the wierdest name you know? Do you like yours? Do you wish it was more unusual, or LESS so? Susie
Which one would you pick? I don't have a lot of hidden talents. Or, if I do, they're REALLY hidden, even from me. There was a time in my life I would have given anything to have been an Olympic gymnast. I'm over that. I'd like to be able to dance, though part of me is still convinced that, given the proper training, I could've. I'd like to have an eye for interior design. But I can hire people for that. And I'd like to say I wish I had a real gift for investing, but the truth is I'm really not all that interested; I just want the results. But what I really wish I could do that I can't at all is sing. It's not modesty that says I can't. I went to a really small high school - everyone who tried out for anything made it. But the look on our music director's face when I tried out for choir . . . I know he wouldn't have let me in, except he needed me too much in band that he didn't dare upset me. He put me between two people who could sing and told me to be soft. In drama, I got the biggest parts in the play where you didn't have to sing a solo. But it seems like it would be fun. To sing along in the car, or with other people at parties. To be able to say, "do you know this song?" and what came out of my mouth was recognizable enough that someone could identify it. So if I got to pick a talent I don't have, I'm pretty sure that's the one I'd choose. So if you could pick one talent you don't have . . . what would it be? Susie
The Truth and Nothing but, by Susie This was originally written for Redbook online, as part of their summer bookclub. Occupational hazard of being a writer: people wonder how much of your own life is in your books. When I was writing romance novels, my dh (lovely term, that, covering “dear husband” or “damn husband”, as the case may be. Often both) considered this a bonus. The love scenes? About him? Every single word. But now, with the upcoming release of Just Sex, he’s concerned. Because the husband in that book is not a good guy. The husband cheats a lot. I’m a little worried about setting the record straight on this. (I worry a lot. One of my talents.) Because it seems to me the surest sign of a celebrity’s relationship being almost over is when they give an interview about how great said relationship is. Shelf life after that? Maybe three months. There are some things in Just Sex that are an awful lot like us. My husband travels on business too much, often to Chicago. I am hopelessly addicted to Diet Coke. We got married young. (I was twenty, he was twenty-five, by two whole weeks. Hey, he needed a green card, and I was young enough to think my life was over if he had to go back to the other side of the world.) Our dog did bloat once, in the middle of the night when the dh was out of town. But I’m pretty sure he’s not cheating on me. At least not up ‘til now. There are two reasons for this: 1) If he was, I’d make him suffer. A lot. I remind him of this regularly, and he believes me. 2) The dh likes to make money; he likes to spend money. He has no interest in the day-to-day management of it, which means every penny goes through me. Every credit card statement, every check, every instant cash receipt. If he’s having an affair, it’s as a kept man. And really, if we’re not talking a young Richard Gere, how often does that happen? We’ve been married a really long time. I’d have to say that a good part of the reason for that is as simple as the fact that we both went in thinking there was no out. This was it. So neither one of us ever does anything unforgivable. (Lots of things that need forgiving? Oh yeah. Regularly.) I remember when we were looking for our first house how many of them were being sold because of an impending divorce. There’d be pictures on the wall, family pictures: happy parents, gorgeous kids. A house that had obviously been put together with love, to hold a family that was no longer whole. Divorce just doesn’t look fun to me. And very expensive, I’m not saying there aren’t good reasons for it. And that whole two to make, two to break is a crock . . . one person, who doesn’t want to be there anymore, can break marriage. Sometimes you just gotta get out. But we’re both decent people. And we both know we don’t want that. Too much trouble. From my husband’s perspective, I think there’re two reasons this works for us. First off, I make him laugh. All the time. I’m not funny. You have to trust me on this. (Sometimes on paper, when I get to think about it for days on end, but not in real life.) But for some reason, he thinks I’m absolutely freakin’ hilarious. It’s weird, but it’s nice. Second, he thinks I’m just this side of Cindy Crawford. You have to trust me on this one, too. I’m not. Never was. Not even, remotely, with low lighting and heavy-duty beer goggles. It’s genius on his part, when you think about it. And quite efficient. All guys want to marry supermodels. In the genes. But there’s a downside to that. I mean, how many guys could actually catch one? And they’d be expensive to keep, and you sure couldn’t take them out to chow down on a cheeseburger. So he’s just decided, all evidence to the contrary, that I am as hot as a female comes. Delusional, of course, but very clever. For me, it’s as simple as the fact that I like that I make him laugh, and I like that he thinks I’m beautiful. And he’s a good guy, all told, a very good guy. A single friend of mine once asked how, when I walked down the street and a gorgeous man passed, could I live with the idea that I’d never have a chance to sleep with someone like that again? Are you kidding me? He wasn’t going to sleep with me anyway. If I went out looking for some great thing out there, I know, I know, that I’d be sorry. I don’t want to do all that again, all that energy, and that worry, to try and build a good relationship. I’ve got one. Okay, maybe the next guy wouldn’t snore quite so loud, and maybe he’d never forget my birthday. (He made up for that one really well, by the way; a guilty dh is a much better gift giver than a regular it’s-your-birthday dh.) But maybe he wouldn’t think I’m hilarious, and maybe he wouldn’t think the only reason I’m not a famous supermodel is that I’m 5’4.” And I doubt he’d not mind at all when I woke up him after a long day at work to hold me, night after night, when I can’t sleep because one of our kids is sick, or I’m stressed about work, or something I saw on the news is haunting me. And for certain I wouldn’t have the memory of the awe on his face when our sons were born. So no, Tom-the-cheater isn’t based on my husband. I promised him I’d let you all know. (A few of my friends’, now, that’s another thing entirely.) And our dog lived another seven stupidly delirious years. Susie
Lookin' good, by Susie Go to this website: http://www.iwanexstudio.com/ Go ahead, it's safe, I promise. It's a top-flight photo retouching studio, and if you go to their portfolio page, you can click on celebrity photos, then roll over them and see what the photos looked like before they fixed them. My first thought was: wow, I want them to work on me. The difference in some of them is amazing. And then it was like a kid's "which one is different?" game, trying to pick out exactly what they did to each picture. But I have to say, it does make me a little uncomfortable. No wonder some young girls have a wierd idea of what female beauty is! And when you think that the BEFOREs were probably taken by talented photographers, after hours of work by gifted makeup artist and hairdressers and stylists . . . NOBODY can look like that. Nobody. Skin goes to flawless with the click of a mouse. Notice how they make a little roll around Beyonce's middle disappear, how they sharply define the waist of the already-thin Eva Longhoria. I think it'd be awfully fun to have them do this to you once. But jeez, it's hard for normal people to live up to. Heck, people who are paid to be gorgeous aren't even close, apparently, if they need that much work done. I'm not a person who thinks about how people look very often. (Anybody who sees me in my normal life knows that I don't worry about it much.) And I don't have daughters. But it does seem to me it'd be good for us all to see what the beautiful people really look like. (My husband was never so disappointed as when he sat by a very famous model - like, in Sports Illustrated - on a plane once. He didn't believe who she was until she showed him a picture.) I'm betting we'd all be a lot less worried about our own flaws. Susie
I went to the movies too About as far from BECOMING JANE as possible, I think. We went to the Bourne Ultimatum. And I liked it a lot. I wish I'd gone back and reviewed the first two before I went; I was a bit confused at the beginning. But then, I often am in spy movies. And there's a fair amount of that jittery/quick change camera work that gives a good sense of the chaos and tension of chase scenes, but kind of makes my head hurt. Still, it was very good. I was tense the whole time, and it flew by. The Julia Stiles character was kind of superfluous, but Joan Allen was great, and Matt Damon only gets more attractive as he gets older and sharper. Good fun. GREAT chase scenes. Susie
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