Whew. Made it.
Currently there are six computers in this house, five of which are laptops, two of which are mine. One of those only gets to the Internet via dial-up, so it’s basically useless. My other laptop has the temperament of a neurotic Chihuahua — pretty much anything will send it into a tizzy. Like, say, passing thunderstorms. #5’s laptop is severely infected with some crap so horrible it’s knocked out the program designed to knock out the crap. 
#3’s computer is password protected, and he was 30,000 feet above the midwest at the time. My husband’s computer — the only desktop — could get to the Internet just fine, but I seriously hate his keyboard. And I had no idea where #1’s laptop was. 
Which is my roundabout way of saying the very minute I got “We’re liiiiivvvve!” from Bekke about the new website, the gate came crashing down on my ability to post to my own blog. Grrrr.
Things are still a bit wonky in Karen’s cyber-world, but intrepid soul that I am, I persevered until I found the back road that finally got me here.
Now, of course, I have basically nothing to say. 
Except to welcome everyone to my fabulous new site. Please feel free to poke around, leave comments…you know the drill. We’ve tried to make it as user-friendly as possible, considering my backlist is beginning to get a tad unwieldy. Other than that, the content is pretty straightforward — no recipes or pics of the kids or any of that. It’s all about the books, baby. 
And the occasional funny LOLcats picture.
Okay, so maybe I should rethink my Amazon bias
Having my website redone. Bekke asked me if I wanted to add Amazon to my Buy the Books links, but I said no because I hate have issues with their used-books-on-the-same-page as the new policy. Although I guess maybe BN.com isn’t much better at this point. Anyway…this morning I get a notice from Amazon about A MOTHER’S WISH becoming available, which I’m guessing they sent to everybody who ever bought/investigated one of my books.
Hmm.
Somebody else doing my promo for me? Not too shabby.
Must reconsider a thing or two.
Ah, the invigorating scent of fresh asphalt…
They repaved our street this morning. Looks great. Smells awful.
And no, that has nothing to do with the actual subject of my post, my brain’s just Twitterpated enough to toss out whatever first bubbles to the surface.
Anyway. There’s a post today over on Dear Author about a so-called arc sent to one of the reviewers that was actually a copy (I’m assuming) of a scribbled-up line edit. Gave me the willies, it did, thinking of a publisher sending a work-in-progress out to somebody to review. Lord, I still have to take deep breaths just thinking about Harlequin sending out the author alteration pages to RT for review before I’ve had a chance to see if I got a good copy editor (meaning, one who doesn’t try to rewrite my book) or a bad copy editor (meaning, one who has a much weaker grasp on grammar and syntax than I and whose “corrections” will have me 
).
So it’s no wonder that any request, however well-intentioned, to share snippets of my WIP will be met with 
.
‘Cause ain’t gonna happen, sweet peas. Oh, I’m happy to share clues as to what the book’s about, as soon as I know (which sometimes I really can’t articulate with any degree of clarity until I’ve finished the first draft, sorry), but the writing itself? Uh, no.
Because, for me, the process is like childbirth — painful and private and not pretty. No, my books aren’t my children (in large part because once the books are done, they’re done, which is more than I can say for my kids, who remain a work-in-progress from conception on), but I feel no more inclined to share my birthing pangs of my books with all and sundry than I was to invite everybody I knew into the delivery room with me.
I think my reticence to give readers a peek into what I’m doing before it’s finished stems from a class project I did in the second grade. Which was…a lot of years ago. For whatever reason, instead of doing my usual careful job, I instead slapped something together and handed it in to my teacher, who — knowing I could do better (and yes, I was seven) — made me redo it. The lesson stuck, and never again did I turn in anything that wasn’t as good as I could make it. Not in school, or college, or to an editor…or to my readers. The very thought gives me hives. So nobody sees nuttin’ until I say it’s ready.
Period.
There’s a line in the Bible about “patience having her perfect work.” It’s one I fall back on a lot when I find myself bitching and moaning about how long it takes to mold a book into something I can be proud of. And while it’s certainly gratifying, after all these years, to have readers so impatient for my next book that they’re begging for an early peek, trust me — there are some places you really, really don’t want to go.
No matter how much you might think you want to.
This is what happens when they let me out
Had no idea there was an inner mall rat itching to get out until, the night before the 4th, I saw a Macy’s ad on TV and heard myself say to the husband, “We should go check out the sales.”
Which only goes to show how desperate I was to a) get AWAY FROM EVERYBODY ELSE and b) not think about the book I should’ve started on the 1st. Because while there was a time when I lived to shop, those days are loooong gone. No time, no energy, no money (damn kids). Usually. But hubby was game, and we actually had a few bucks left after feeding everybody and filling the gas tank, so off we went.
Now, on those now rare occasions when I do indulge in a shopping spree, there are three departments I can’t pass up: shoes, jewelry and nightwear. Mainly because while the chances of my finding something I would actually put on the parts of this fifty-something body between my neck and my feet are slim to none (since I am neither fourteen nor anorexic — have you seen what passes for clothes these days? Sad.), I can always find shoes and pretty baubles with which to adorn my person. And I’m always on the lookout for feminine nightwear I can still wear around easily grossed-out young men who probably wouldn’t mind if their mother took to wearing burkhas.
Anyway. So, two years ago we had to go to this wedding, and I got it in my head that I wanted to spiff up the green outfit I wore to the RITA ceremony in Denver with cobalt blue accessories. Too bad for me, however, because clearly I was two years ahead of the curve. Yes indeedy, all the blue accessories I could not find for all the tea in China were on abundant display last week. So naturally I bought the shoes I needed then, now. Because they were hot, that’s why. And 75 percent off. Macy’s shoes at Payless prices?
Yeah, like I was gonna leave those puppies for someone else to adopt. Not.
Once out on furlough, however, we decided to go for broke and hit up Dillard’s, too. Now, Dillard’s shoe department is aMAZing…a freaking Imelda paradise, at least by Albuquerque standards. They even carry six-hundred-dollar shoes, although who the heck in Albuquerque wears six hundred dollar shoes, I have no idea. Nobody I know. But the husband/pack mule, collapsed in a chair in the I-dare-you-not-to-choke-on-the-prices section, sez, “You should try them on. Just for fun.”
I consider the forbidden fruit closest to me. Dark green lizard-esque pumps. Heels taller than I am. Certainly taller than my foot is long. I think.
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, c’mon. You know you want to,” the husband goads. (No surprise we have five kids. Ahem.)
Tentatively, I slip them on. Try to stand. Realize I’m suddenly five-eight and nearly get a nosebleed. Try to walk and nearly land in the display. Don’t get me wrong, I adore high heels, but the whole point of high heels is the Sexy Walk. Not the Drunken Stork Lurch.
So naturally I tried on three more pairs, because they were there, and I was OUT, and that’s the closest this babe’s ever going to come to wearing shoes that cost nearly as much as my mortgage payment. And by the third pair, I almost figured out how to walk in the damn things without taking out everybody around me. For five minutes, I was Cat Deeley. At least from the ankles down. Then I put my flat flip-flops back on and we came home, and I felt like Cinderella after the ball was over.
Except I got to take the prince — who put the blue Macy’s shoes on HIS credit card, good man — home with me.
All in all, a very good day.
If they had an award…
…for worst blogger, I’d win. Or at least final.
Sorry. But as I said over on Facebook, if my nest gets any fuller, it’s gonna explode. Or my head will.
Let’s see…#s 4 and 5 were already (or still) here. #3 moved back, with the dog. And his kid, part-time. Except now the baby’s mom is here, too, so the baby’s here full-time. (Don’t ask. Just chuck it into the “stuff happens” folder and move on.) #3 didn’t give up his social life when he moved back, so from time to time I stumble across assorted young men I didn’t give birth to. They’re all lovely, to be sure, but tonight I looked at my (not exactly huge) living room and counted six people and the dog and thought, I’m living in a frat house. Without the booze and wild parties.
And to think, we’d gotten down to two…
Anyway. The husband was watching some 30’s film on TMC with Jimmy Stewart and Anne Miller and Jean Arthur, I have no idea what it was, but Jimmy Stewart was some bigwig’s son (a banker or businessman or somebody) and he was in love with Jean Arthur, his secretary, who lived with a whole slew of crazy relatives. And the husband, being remarkably secure in our relationship, called me in to see this scene where Anne Miller was dancing on pointe in the living room while her husband played the marimba and the father was down in the basement, blowing things up, and various people were coming and going, it was total chaos, and in middle of it all, the mother was typing away at the novel she was writing.
The husband thought I’d get a kick out of it.
Smartass.
