December 22, 2010 • 1 Comment
Holiday meals have always been run by Family Tradition. Woe betide the innovator, because the turkey dinner is the turkey dinner. If a vampire came for dinner, he’d be eating the dead bird and Brussels sprouts and mashed spuds, too—or else. In a throw down between my mother in an obstinate mood and the forces of darkness, I’d put my money on the home team.
Speaking as someone who has lived largely, sometimes strictly, as a vegetarian, I have issues with this. Tradition is deaf to my pain.
My own influences have therefore crept in at the edges, waving from the gravy-soaked sidelines. I get to do Christmas Eve dinner, and this is one of my favourite offerings. This recipe is yummy, light, and perfect for that oh-no-not-more-turkey phase that hits around December 29 ….
A not-so-shepherd’s pie
Saute a large diced onion with two cloves of crushed garlic, 1 tsp each of thyme and coriander, a half pound of sliced mushrooms, and tons of black pepper. Add a half pound of crumbled tempeh and 1/3 cup of tamari (or soy) sauce (note that this takes the place of any added salt). Add 2 cups of vegetables (frozen works) and ¼ cup chopped parsley or cilantro. Cook until tempeh is slightly browned and the mushrooms are cooked. Mix two cups of vegetable broth (I use bouillon cubes) with ¼ cup flour and stir into veg mix.
Meanwhile, turn 3 pounds of potatoes into creamy mashed potatoes. Oil a 9 x 13 baking pan, and put the veg mix in the bottom. Cover with the mashed potatoes. Garnish with paprika, chopped nuts, or chopped parsley if desired. Bake at 375F for about half an hour or until the top browns. If you like a super-decadent twist, brush the top with olive oil or melted butter for an extra-golden finish.
It’s comfort food that is actually fairly good for you. Goes well with fresh salad.
Have a fabulous holiday season!
December 14, 2010 • 1 Comment
I actually dug out my first Christmas CD of the year in order to write this blog. I’m not in the festive mood and probably won’t be until a) I get this extremely busy work-week out of the way (I can tell everyone is piling it on in an effort to clear their desks for the holiday) and b) the copyedits of Frostbound pass from my computer back to NYC. Then it’s time to figure out what shopping I have or haven’t done. Yup, I’ll be one of those last-minute people scampering wildly through the mall on Christmas Eve. Extreme sports, jingle style.
It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, when I performed and even recorded Christmas music, I would start digging out Christmas tunes in the fall, rehearsing for some time before taking the show on the road. Needless to say, my neighbours hated me. However, I was in the festive spirit well in advance of December 25. All my cards were mailed on time.
I delighted in finding weird but authentic carols. Personal favourites include the Boar’s Head carol, a medieval processional lauding the donkey Mary rode (c/w chorus “hey you ass, hee-haw”), and some of the gorier verses of the Coventry Carol, but I’m perverse that way. Or maybe it was self-defense. By New Years I was ready to scream if I heard another fa-la-la.
On the whole, I had a great time. The grumpy moments of hiking my harp up flights of stairs have faded, and I remember the joy on kids’ faces. I can’t count the times the elderly would tell me they hadn’t heard such-and-such a carol since they were young. And I treasure the feeling of timelessness that comes from giving voice to songs hundreds of years old. It’s one experience we can truly share with our ancestors.
The time for those moments hasn’t passed, but it had to ebb to make way for new adventures. And, since I abandoned my wassailing ways, I’ve had to find other ways of getting my Santa on. I found this lovely tidbit on YouTube—one of my favourite Victorian carols played by Loreena McKennitt and accompanied by truly gorgeous scenery. It definitely stirs my feeling of sparkly winter wonder …
December 7, 2010 • No Comments
It’s December, the time for top ten lists. Since I, like everyone else, am in a tinselly, chocolaty holiday frame of mind, here are ten things that make me smile:
10. Finding out the repair bill won’t be huge. ‘Nuff said. Got my computer back in one piece.
9. Getting home. This counts double in these leave-in-the-dark, come-home-in-the-dark times. Triple if your day involved travel. Quadruple if it was travel for work.
8. Snow. It’s just too pretty to complain about for long. (Of course, we don’t get an unreasonable amount here—just enough to be purty.) Here’s a shot I took last month. You can’t see the harbour in the background because of the fog.
7. Here’s a seasonal one: finding a really cool present. You know what I mean—the type that makes you chuckle with glee because you know they’ll love it.
6. Nauseatingly cute animal pictures. If you like them, too, check out the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee.
5. A good Regency romance. I loved this one, but then Julia Quinn is always a treat:
4. Nice feedback about my books. Reviews. Emails. Kind words at book signings. I love to know that I gave someone a few hours of pleasure. It makes the zillion hours cursing at my computer screen worthwhile.
3. My cats, who will purr for me even if I’ve been a complete toad that day.
2. Random phone calls and visits from friends. The ones where they just want to chat because they like you. That’s when I know I count.
1. Hugs from family and friends, because it’s the people that matter when all is said and done. That was something Charles Dickens had right.
Do not adjust your set. I shall be back to my regular curmudgeonly mood anon. But not too soon.
December 1, 2010 • No Comments
The problem with growing up is you have to decide things. There are small, annoying things like whether to eat a healthy dinner or stick with potato chips and ice cream. Worse, there are important decisions, like how to engineer a more or less steady income. If you’re like me, the latter happens more by default than conscious planning.
So when confronted with the “what do you want to be when you grow up” question, I’m inclined to shrug. Who says I want to grow up?
When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina. I studied dance until I was in university, when it became abundantly clear that I’d missed some sort of highway exit to the Royal Academy, probably when I was around eight. I was tartly informed that the teen years were too late to get serious. So I got a literature degree instead, with honours. I refused to be washed up before the age of twenty, no matter what some dance mistress said.
Meanwhile, I shifted my dreams from one art form to another, trying out fabric painting, bookbinding, costuming and music. Finally, I settled on writing and started zooming along on this oddball carnival ride. The point isn’t that I become rich and famous. The point is that I can move forward. Artistic achievement is a process, not a stopping point. There are many roads and there is always some new pinnacle on the horizon, just out of reach. Without that misty destination in front of me, I would grind to a halt.
So, no, I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want to face facts, set goals, or turn my dreams into concrete plans. I can do that with the mundane part of my brain that works nine to five and reads the grocery fliers for the best bargain. It won’t invade the important part of my world, where I look out the window at the clouds and think, “What could I possibly do if I just turned my mind to it?” Because most things are possible. Just ask a child. It’s the adults that like to tell us where we fall short.
I don’t want to grow up. What I want to be will always remain an open opportunity.
November 25, 2010 • 1 Comment
Here’s an interesting story.
It begins: “A group of ghost hunters is planning a titanic mission in order to see whether the spirits of the folks who drowned on the Titanic are still haunting the site of the wreck. . . . ” They’re off in search of EVP.
November 24, 2010 • 2 Comments
Which constitutes my real life—the one where I trundle off to the office each day, or the one where I sit swearing at my computer making up stories?
The romantically correct answer is to say that art is everything and that I am only alive when I am writing. Eh, not so much. There are times when I feel that and, hey, hand me a big enough royalty cheque and I’m out of the day job in a flash. However, until that day comes, I’m very much in favour of salary, benefits, and pension. I like to know that my heat will be on and my fridge full. I’m shallow that way.
In some ways, that makes it easier to handle the unpredictable nature of the writing biz. Because my survival is not dependent on its antics, I can keep a cooler head. On the other hand, the hours that could be devoted to improving my art are spent in meetings. It’s impossible not to resent that when a story is calling my name.
There are only two answers I can think of for managing work and writing both. One, I treat the writing as seriously as I do my paid employment. I go to work, and then I come home and go to work again on job #2. Workaholic? No, just an understanding that no one is going to do the book for me. Therefore, I sacrifice countless hours of prime time television. Oh well.
Two, I am very wary of burnout. Given #1 above, I’m bad about not building in R&R. My answer to everything is to work harder. Unfortunately, harder (at least in this context) isn’t always better. Jokes get flat, sentences plod, and the story sounds as tired as I feel. There is only so much pulling-up-of-socks one can do at that point. More effort won’t help; in fact, it will only hurt. The solution? Just back away from the computer. Go take a nap. The nice thing about writing is that it stays put until you can come back to it with a fresh eye.
The contradictory nature of my two answers speaks for itself. Art versus life is a balancing act. Fun versus labour. Inspiration versus perspiration. Fortunately, women are good at juggling priorities. After all, we hold down jobs, take care of children and parents, keep house, and make sure holidays happen. We know how to work smart.
November 18, 2010 • No Comments
Okay, for those who don’t know this event (put on by the folks from Fresh Fiction), it’s an intimate readers conference with a ratio of about 10 readers per author. The guest of author this year was Sherrilyn Kenyon, so there were quite a few of her fans in attendance and the event had a distinctly paranormal flavour. However, there were other genres well-represented by the likes of Lauren Willig and Tara Taylor Quinn. See here for a complete list of guests.
Confession time: going to a conference where I know next to nobody is not my comfort zone, especially when I’m supposed to be witty and engaging. Unhappily, I had to face the dreaded microphone twice—and I wasn’t expecting it on either occasion. The first time was Friday night, after two glasses of wine, no dinner, and 15 hours of solid travel (I have no idea what I said) and the second at 9:30 the next morning, with still no food and barely a slurp of coffee (no idea what I said that time, either). I might have been blazingly brilliant or utterly incoherent—my memory is a blank. Folks still talked to me afterward so I guess I didn’t sound totally out of it!
There was a reception on the Friday night. Saturday had panels, a luncheon, a book signing and a costume contest. Sunday folks went out for brunch in groups. There were also some ongoing things, like raffles, silent auctions, a room where authors and readers could hang out, and so on.
The best part of the get-together was the people. I adored the readers. I adored the authors (had a few quiet fan girl moments). I met so many super people, I soon forgot about not knowing anyone and felt like I knew everyone. If you (like me) are a little on the shy side, this is a good event to try out. It’s a very comfortable size.
November 16, 2010 • 3 Comments
As I write this, I’m at the Readers and Ritas gathering in Dallas, Texas. This event (put on by Fresh Fiction) is an extraordinary bash for readers of romance fiction, hence the “readers” part of the title. The “ritas” references margaritas. So far I’ve seen plenty of the former and very few of the latter. The drug of choice here appears to be Sherrilyn Kenyon, the guest of honour.
So, on to the “hot hero” part of the blog. As I’m in a perfect position to do field research, being in the middle of a pack of avid readers, I can accurately report the preferences of at least this slice of the reading populace. Heroes get points if they are a Dark Hunter. They get extra points if they’re Acheron. Points are awarded if you’re Taylor Lautner or could possibly be portrayed by Taylor Lautner. Beyond that, vampire porn will suffice, with the odd furball thrown in. The one “must” is that they are an alpha, because these readers are big girls not looking for “safe”—at least not in their reading material. The nice-guy beta hero is more the fare of the YA market.
Reassuring, because the vampire hero I’m working with at the moment is more alpha than any of my previous ones. I like to think of him as Bruce Willis from “Die Hard” crossed with Hellboy. The only thing that saves him from being obnoxious is a sense of humour. I had to give him something redeeming because, good grief, he’s occupying my brain for the next while. Y’know the cliché of the vamp in formal wear with all the fine china and expensive décor? Not this fella. He’s more of a sports bar vampire—and just the ticket if you want to save a town from some very evil forces disguised as a beer.
Now, all that being said, it does lead me to one question. Trade fangs for fur or a corporate suit for a cowboy hat, alphas are all broody, sexy, take-charge guys. Stray too far from that basic DNA, and many readers lose interest. I’ve always wondered how far the envelope can be pushed. A non-traditional occupation? A fondness for goldfish? He rides a bicyle? Owns a bichon frisee (okay, that might not work with a werewolf)?
How far and in what way can the essential alpha vary and still be true to the romance code?
November 10, 2010 • No Comments
If you ask a kid if they can sing, they say yes. They can dance. They can draw. They can be a fire engine. It’s only when they get a little older that they begin to doubt themselves.
Stage fright and lack of self-confidence are learned behaviours. There’s a great book called A Soprano on Her Head that goes into this with reference to music performance, but what it says applies to pretty much any situation. We’re programmed to be scared. The message of why we can’t do things sneaks into our brains in a million horrible ways. Our job as functional adults is to slam the door on those lies and reclaim our creative expression.
Which of course sounds easier than it really is. Reprogramming instinctual responses takes time.
I recently took a course on public presentations—the type where you have to get up and speak with or without preparation or a topic of your choice. While I hated doing it, I’ve had enough practice to know that I won’t actually die if I get up on stage. Yes, I’m suddenly exposed and vulnerable, but the fight/flight response is entirely unwarranted. The problem is getting my brain to convince my body that I’m NOT about to be eaten by tigers.
That bit has taken years. The only thing that’s helped me get over stage fright is practice. Lots and lots of it. Eventually those butterflies become part of the preparatory process, but if I stop practicing the terror seeps back and those butterflies grow fangs.
You’d think writing would be easier because you’re not on stage. In some ways that’s true, but really the same gut “uh-oh!” reaction happens at critique groups, when you’re talking to your agent or editor, when you have to go do a reading, or when you click “read review” on a web site. There’s that sudden jab of nerves that says you’re prepped for attack. And if that’s not bad enough, there’s that darned blinking cursor every day telling you to be a genius in the next five minutes or your entire career is over, over, overoverover, baby. No pressure.
But the cure is the same: practice. Type that blinking cursor into submission. I’m not brilliant nine times out of ten, but I’m confident that I can cover paper like crazy, and if I write enough I can keep the good bits and throw out the dumb parts.
I think that’s what’s behind the old saw, “Write Every Day.” You get over the shock of what you’re allowing yourself to do. The sense of risk fades into the background. Like any performance, once you can relax into it, you get a whole lot better.
And maybe even have some fun. Now there’s a thought.
October 31, 2010 • No Comments
Best wishes to all those out there who like Halloween as much as I do. It’s a gorgeous morning, the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness is curled up next to the laptop, watching the birds play in the birch tree. I have fresh coffee. My laundry is already started, which means I’ll finish up in time to do more than just chores today. All in all, I’m content.
I’ve been working on an As Yet Untitled for a book proposal. It dragged its sorry backside throughout yesterday, only to get a burst of oomph at about 10:00 pm last night and I burned through to the end of the chapter. Yes, it’s rough, but it’s something I can work with.
It’s a hard chapter, because it’s the set-up, nuts-and-bolts boring stuff that has to get out there so the reader knows what’s going on. In the Victorian novel, no one blinked if an author included whole chapters that were sidebars designed to explain all that stuff. In current fiction, no one has the patience to wade through the facts. So, authors proceed like harried mothers trying to disguise vegetables so that their kids will consume them. Enough cheese sauce will hopefully do the trick.
Personally, I think we should be allowed to put an FAQ in the back of the book and go from there.