Things are a little tight right now for everyone…or for most of us real tight.

The cost of gas is out of this world. It takes $55 to fill my little SUV. Holy cow!! Thank heavens it gets 30mpg but even at that it’s $55! That’s insane. And of course this translates into everything going up.

Check your food bill lately? Check the price of milk! I guess because it’s all trucked in from the cows. And bread! I think they must be making my bread in Alaska and trucking it in.

And if you happen to have a 401K or stocks or any kind of investments you probably feel like jumping out the window. Me first! Retirement?? Yeah right.

So, I’m thinking of ways to cut back on expenses. Vacation? I painted my fence. I work at the Snooty Fox. This is an upscale consignment shop and I’ve decided that this is my only place to shop for clothes because they’re a fraction of the cost. No more trips to Coldwater Creek. That place is dangerous for me. I always find something cute.

And as for going out to dinner… I’m having the family over to grill out at home instead of running off to The Cheesecake Factory and it’s hamburgers and not steak on that grill and, boy, do I miss the CCF.

For fun we’re doing more corn hole (those of you in the Midwest know what that is) and not so much running off to movies…though Batman is an exception!

I’m running the AC less and fans more and even turning off my computer when not using it even thought it takes forever for my PC to boot up. Are you still buying books? Trading more books with friends? Going to used book stores more? Rereading your keeper shelf?

Soooo, my question to you all is… Is the present money crunch making you do anything differently? Do you have a fav way to skimp? I’m always looking for ways to save a buck.

Good luck on pinching those pennies!

Hugs,
Dianne Castell
Hot and Bothered
Kensington BRAVA
DianneCastell.com

Oh, the bittersweet memories. The sweet nothings, the cuddling in corners, that endearing bit of broken binding. Somewhere out there lives the book of your memories, a book you once loved but that escaped your grasp and now exists only in memory as… the Book That Got Away.

I went through scads of books in my youth, many of them with interchangeable titles. You remember some; you forget others. But every now and then, you encounter a book that lingers in your imagination—except for the title. And the author’s name. Little details like that. You may be able to recount the plot point by point, you may be able to describe the cover down to the last bulging thew, but neither of those are searchable on Amazon.

My very own Book That Got Away dates back to seventh grade. Picture it: 1989. Hair is fluffy, stirrup leggings are in, and my best friend has been raiding her big sister’s bookshelf again. Under cover of our desks, she passes the latest over to me while our Latin teacher is singing the lunch menu in the manner of a tenor at the Met (no, seriously, he did that—he also sang out our names when he called on us. I was always “Laur-laur-laur-laur-laur…laur-laur-laur-laur-laur… LAUR!” But I digress.) He’s still on the entrée, so I check out the back. A handicapped American spinster… an Austrian count… a marriage of convenience and assorted Eastern European revolutions. Brilliant! I wasn’t so keen on Eastern European revolutions, which generally ended in burning castles and emigrations, but I adored marriage of convenience plots and Austrian noblemen (in my head, they all looked a lot like Christopher Plummer). I dropped my prize into my Chocolate Soup messenger bag, nudging it occasionally with my toe so I could check out the cover and gloat. The hero, Nancy assured me as we made our way to English class, was exceptionally dashing, very Judith McNaught. I gave a little bounce up and down in token of my anticipation and wondered, a trifle uneasily, why the contents of my stomach seemed to keep on bouncing even after I had stopped.

And that’s when I threw up right across the threshold of the seventh grade English classroom.

I gather they didn’t have English class in that room that day. I couldn’t vouch for that, since I wasn’t there. I was at home, in bed, hiding from my seventh grade shame in a pre-World War I world of hunting lodges, heiresses, and tormented heroes with mysterious first marriages. Queasy but contented, I lay propped against my pillows, imagining myself in a bustled gown, whisking across the garden of an Austrian estate, while a golden-haired count hurried in my wake. Woozy with flu, I finished the entire book in one go and fell into a medicated sleep peopled with limping Austrian noblemen who summoned me across the waters for marriages of convenience.

Both I and the book went back to school the next day, and the book, no worse for wear (although the same couldn’t be said for the carpet in the English classroom) went back to Nancy’s sister. And that was that. Until years later when the memories of the book that got away nagged at me and nagged at me until I had to track it down. Fortunately, I remembered that the heroine’s name was Eliza and that the title had “Night” in the cover. An afternoon of concerted googling finally revealed my Book That Got Away as Surrender the Night by Christine Monson. Within the hour a used copy was wending its way Cambridge-wards. And we all lived happily ever after.

Do you have a Book That Got Away?

[N.B. For anyone pining after a hard-to-track-down book, Smart Bitches Trashy Books has a marvelous feature where you can write in a description of a plot and they'll post it for the readership to identify. Huzzah for SBTB!]

Morning!

Have y’all ever wondered how they came up with calling the middle of the week hump day?  All sorts of things spring to mind, but I don’t think I’d better go there.  I’ll just let your imaginations run wild.

I bought Karl a Wii for his birthday last month.  We’re addicted to it.  I love tennis and occasionally, I even win a match.  We never had games like this when we were kids.  Karl was working after school and on weekends when he was really young, and when I was growing up if I ever mentioned the word bored, I was given something to do that guaranteed I would no longer be bored.  I learned to look busy.  But now we can play. 

So, what are all of y’all doing this summer?  Any big plans? I’m the person who actually loves to watch home movies.  I’m also addicted to the travel Channel…and HGTV. 

Hey, did y’all watch the video on Alison Kent’s blog—Christian the Lion.  I watch that at least twice a day.  It’s wonderful!  Have the sound up and tissues ready.  

Karl will post a contest this morning for my newsletter group.  This is besides my monthly book give away.  We figured up the cost and I think it’s around $90.  I have some pretty cool stuff so if you get a chance run sign up www.authorkarenkelley.com

I feel the need for a game of tennis so I’m outta here.  Have a great day!

Karen 

In honor of Wild, Wild Women of the West and the summer season, I’m dedicating this blog to Wild, Wild Summer Fun! Besides the swimming, boating, hiking, camping and usual fun you have in the summer, what wild and crazy things have you done this summer or summers past?

When I was seventeen, I recall an early summer outing with my sister, Delilah Devlin, and some friends of ours. We loaded up Delilah’s ancient 1967 dark green Impala (that couldn’t go over 45 mph without shaking the snot out of you) with a tent, sleeping bags, food items and beer (beer being the key ingredient). We hopped on the road (okay chugged. Remember? The car had issues) and headed 6 hours north to Fayetteville, Arkansas, home of theUniversity of Arkansas and a friend of a friend who was along for the ride. We picked up said friend and crossed the lovely state for the next 3 hours to Blanchard Springs Campground and Caverns. I think I slept most of the trip, thankfully.To say we had a blast is just the beginning. The weather was cool at night and gorgeous during the day. My sister brought a guitar, the friend of a friend we picked up in Fayetteville brought a banjo and we spent our evenings sitting on a concrete bridge pickin’ tunes and singing out loud to the crickets.

One evening, a van from Iowa drove up and a bunch of barefoot young people piled out. We were thinking hillbillys (like us Arkansans weren’t closer to that truth). “Want to pick a tune?” one of the Iowa guys asked.

We were all for performing, not that we had much of a repertoire, but an audience is an audience afterall. So while Delilah and the banjo picker (can’t even remember his name) strummed a tune, the barefoot Iowa gang pulled out another banjo and two fiddles!

We had a hoe-down right there in that north Arkansas park! It was the wildest, most spontaneous thing I can remember from my teen years and will always be a special memory for me.

What about you? What is the wildest summer fun you’ve ever had?

I’ve had a lot of cause to think about quotes recently. My son’s English teacher asked him to write a credo essay in which he explained why a famous quote could be adopted in his own life. My husband was asked for his favorite quote at his workplace for a project they were doing.

I was happy to help them both think through some quotes as I keep lists of the ones I like best. When I taught English Composition at a handful of universities, I always liked to put a quote on the board every day to give students a little something extra to think about. Every now and then we’d discuss the quote of the day for a critical thinking exercise and sometimes the students would respond to the quote in their journals. But most of the time, the quotes were simply in the background—tiny learning snippets that might resonate for someone.

I don’t know what attracts me to quotes, but a copy of John Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations ends up on my desk fairly often. I like thumbing through now and again for a little inspiration or a mini history lesson. A perennial favorite is Theodore Roethke’s “In a dark time, the eye begins to see.” I’m also a big fan of Eleanor Roosevelt’s “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” (How’s that for a bit of personal “ooh-rah” on a tough day?) I also like Zora Neale Hurston’s “Some people can look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships.” That’s from one of my favorite books Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora may have meant that one as a bit of a put-down for fanciful thinkers, but I preferred to embrace it as the optimist’s guide to life. If we can’t see the possibilities in a situation—the glorious inside the simple—then we aren’t using enough imagination.

So what about you? Did you have to put a favorite quote on your yearbook page? Have you come across some favorite sayings since then that embody your point of view or inspire you? Share a favorite or two on the boards this week and I’d be happy to share a copy of my new release, SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT (Special Edition 7/08) with a random poster.

by HelenKay Dimon

When you write a set of stories centered on a house you kind of need to love houses. I do. I’m a homebody. Being home, in a place I love surrounded by people I love, is a huge comfort to me. I can’t imagine traveling all the time or not having a stable place to come to at the end of every day. That’s just not me. I’m thinking the term is nester. Yeah, I’m one of those. I think that’s a good thing, but I’m not sure…

So, when it came time to find an idea to bind three novellas together for my newest release, an anthology called HARD AS NAILS, I decided on a home & hearth theme. Sure, romance novels can take place anywhere – here, there, in the past, or even in space. I went with the most relatable, a big house in the middle of a city.

This is less a case about writing what you know than it is fact of writing about what interests you {in this case, me}. Old houses intrigue me. You know the ones. They have a looming presence. They tend to scale at least two stories, usually three. They are in every city and every small town. Many have huge front doors, a rambling porches and exterior fences. Sometimes they even have those special preservation placks on them which mean the house remains today in much the same condition as it did in 1778, 1870 or whatever year it was built.

Then there are the ones like the house in Psycho. Big, yes, but not in a good way. Those houses are just plain scary. We all remember growing up on a street with one or two of those around. After some thought, I decided not to go with the fright angle for HARD AS NAILS. Tempting because I’ve been wanting to try something a little spooky without it being paranormal, but I refrained. Instead, I went with the idea of home as comfort.

The real-life National Trust For Historic Preservation is the well-known nonprofit organization charged with protecting historic homes and sites. The website provides all sorts of information about endangered and rescued properties. The photos of restored places are fascinating. {Go check it out…}

In HARD AS NAILS, an anthology of three related stories revolving around a house rehab project, I made up a conservation society. Because, really, the best part of being an author is the ability to make stuff up. That and working at home in my sweats. And setting my own schedule. And never wearing pantyhose…

You get the idea.

My HARD AS NAILS heroes work for a company that restores protected historical properties. To ground the book, I turned to a place I lived for about 17 years (excluding those few years when I went to school in North Carolina). Washington, D.C. is the home of stunning old buildings, brownstones, mansions, churches, organizations – you name it, you’ll find a beautiful example here. I’ve included a few photos just so you could see some examples of D.C. architecture. When putting the setting for HARD AS NAILS into my head, I looked through the internet at some of these properties. I needed to find a place to call up in my mind as I wrote about my fictional house. Since the 1940s one-story house where I live is in San Diego and decidedly is not Victorian, I couldn’t look around my living room when I wanted to get into the restored house writing mood. I needed to find a sample house.

And I did. It’s a three-story Victorian in the middle of D.C’s Logan Circle/Dupont Circle area. The house, which is actually a B&B you can visit, even has a name. It’s called the Aaron Shipman House. I’ve never been there or even peeked inside, though I am dying to do so. Once again – as often happens while writing - the internet came to my rescue. Through the wonder of technology I could (virtually) walk through the house, getting a feel for the architecture and structure. From there, I could build the fictional house in my head. With the background and setting tackled, it was a matter of putting these people in motion.

We all know you can’t have a romance without the people, right?

The first novella, This Old House, deals with the attempts by house rehabber Cole Carruthers to get squatter Aubrey Matheson out of a falling down, desperately-in-need-of-renovation house. The place was supposed to be empty and ready for renovation by Cole’s company. Someone forgot to tell Aubrey that. Besides, she has something she has to do before she can vacate. What choice does Cole have but to stay around and watch her?

In All About Adam, two lawyers who met at a work conference months before…and spent a bit more time together in a hotel room than sitting in boring lectures…reunite to negotiate the house rehab contract. Adam Thomas wants to know why Becky Carter left him so fast. She’s not talking, so the battle is on.

In the final novella, Man At The Door, it’s six months later and Erin McHugh now owns the house. She’s a home-is-everything type person. She needs peace and a break from some unwanted attention. She gets job foreman Ray Hammond on her doorstep instead. He’s there to work on the house, but he doesn’t want to leave. Erin has to decide if there’s room in her mansion for a man who’s good with his hands.

Three couples bound by a house. No magic, just a lot of love.

So, what gives you that feeling? Is there a place you go when you need to relax and feel at ease? Is it somewhere other than home? I know people who get that comfort from traveling and others who get it without pulling out of the driveway. What about you?

I’ll give away two copies of HARD AS NAILS to people chosen at random from those commenting. The winner will be posted here on Monday (in the comments). Until then, let me know your thoughts.

Okay, so the title’s more exciting than this post. Oooh! A writer should never diss her own hook, but really, me in a Speedo serving margaritas ain’t what’s happening here.

The family talked about sinking a pool in the yard, but everyone muttered about maintenance. Not knowing any better, I thought what’s the problem? You fill it with water when it needs it, toss in some chlorine and that’s it, right? I was already envisioning my tanned body stretched across a floating mattress while I sipped a Mai Tai.

Well, the pool’s been installed for a couple of weeks and I get why everyone else snickered when I volunteered. First, no one mentioned that water attracts insects and animals and every leaf that falls from a tree in a one-mile radius. Can I just say “Euwww!” when it comes time for me to dump the traps that catch all the gross things that skim along the top of the pool? Or how about the shrew (looks like a cute little long-nosed mouse) I scooped from the depths that drowned because it couldn’t dog paddle for eight hours before it could be rescued. I haven’t found myself swimming with a snake yet, but the the pool guy who ran me through a maintenance training course warned me it will.

So while you might be envious that I spend my early mornings and late afternoons floating around a large pool on an orange noodle (a flotation device)–keep in mind I’m doing it to save a little effort while I wield my net to skim the creepie-crawlies off the pool.

Just kidding, though. I love the pool. All those laps I make while I hunt for crickets, spiders, beetles, and June bugs give me time to get my mind into the story I’m currently writing. I’m tanned for the first time in a decade. AND I’m developing some muscle under all this flab. But don’t expect to EVER see me in a Speedo while I perform my duties.