Summer and Slowing Down

Digging up bulbs, planting new hostas, and generally playing in the yard sucks me away from the computer as surely as a vortex down the drain. After thirteen straight weekends of rain, the past one was glorious. I even tackled the moss on the brick patio. Now that's looking for an excuse to stay outside in the extreme, LOL. No movie, no party, no sale can lure me away from a work in progress, but lovely sunshine and a yard can do it every time.

I need to get LEGAL KILL in shape before the Thrillerwriters conference in NYC in July. That means the fanny has to stay in the chair. Three weeks of family stuff played havoc with my schedule, but it's time to get back into the routine. We writers have to come up for air now and then. I've had my fun, now it's back to work.

How do you get yourself psyched to work when the weather is wonderful after a long cold winter and a wet, miserable spring?

Diplomas, Dolls, and a Diatribe

She's a college graduate. Diploma in hand, tassel switched to the other side, drama honor society drape in place, she's posed and smiled and said her good-byes to faculty and friends. She has a BA in History, minor in Film and Photography, Drama. Anyone want to hire a smart, educated young woman?

Rain held off long enough for the two hour ceremony, outdoors under ancient oaks, to run its course. Unfortunately, the bozos sitting behind us didn't run out of chatter. Talk, talk, talk, through every address, until my husband had to turn around and say something to shut them up. That wasn't the worst, however. One of these charming idjits brought a blowup sex doll to wave in the air at the graduate they'd come to celebrate. Mind you, this is a women's university, and this doll was garish, tacky, and embarrassing. Why bring it to graduation? Just so you can insult every woman there who'd worked hard to earn her degree? My youngest child took matters in her own hands. A pair of manicure scissors did the job. The idjit spent a lot of time trying to blow it up again, which meant he wasn't talking. Both pluses. My children are geniuses. I'm so glad we've raised smart girls.

Remember my rant about manners? Want to take bets these yahoos weren't from the South?

Now I get to watch the All Star Race at Lowe's on Tivo and relax for a bit. Life is good. Even better, it's time to get back to the writing. I'm a happy woman.

Graduation!

Our oldest, Skyler, is graduating from college this coming Sunday. Can't be possible. I was changing her diapers just yesterday, sigh. It's amazing how the little nippers grow up, isn't it? I remember someone telling me to cherish those long, hectic, crazy days when they were babies, and thinking to myself, yeah, right! Now I'm there, giving the same advice to new moms, LOL. Oh my, how unoriginal.

The amazing part is, they've grown up to be intelligent, nice, creative young women. They'll go far in life, I have no doubt. My hubby and I always reminded ourselves that our purpose was to raise independent adults who could balance their checkbooks and fly away from our nest with complete confidence. Think we got it right.

Whenever I finish a manuscript, I feel the same way. Will it fly by itself? Will it land in a good home? I've done my best, I can't do anything more to ensure its success. Sending it out is a bit scary, as it is for any mom letting go of her child for the first time, but there's no point in clinging to it. The world awaits.

Running out of Talent

Kyle Busch loves to run a loose car. Makes amazing saves. Exciting to watch. Only problem is, he got loose under Junior and threw the Heir Apparent into the wall in Richmond. I was there. Beer cans hit the track. Fans began leaving in droves. Then out of nowhere, Clint Bowyer slipped past Busch, who was fighting off Mark Martin, to win. Talk about excitement. Good racin'. Glad I was there. Now, it's back to Real Life. Sigh.

On the up side, I'm getting ready to welcome home les enfants from school for a bit. One's off to summer school for first quarter, the other into a job. It'll be the first summer we'll be minus both children at once. Seems like only a few months ago that I was hauling girls to the pool for swimming lessons, to summer camps, tennis lessons, and the library. Wow. Empty nesting to the max has now arrived.

Speaking of driving loose, when the writing is loose, it's as wild as a ride on the track. All over the place with nowhere to land but trouble - not a good thing with a book. Hmmm. LEGAL KILL is a bit loose at the moment. Gotta get the wheels under it.

A Mini Rant about Manners

I've been thinking about this for a while. After reading a Garrison Keillor column about the lack of manners in today's society (Yeah, let's hear it for manner lessons preached with humor!), I decided to list my own personal peeves. Sounding peckish here (a lot of "p" words, hmmm...), probably because I'm not sleeping. Always happens when a story grabs me by the brain cells and won't let go. Enough of me. Back to the manners thing.

One of my favorites is the cute young thing who insists on calling me by my first name. She could be a receptionist in the dentist's office, the insurance agent's front desk person, or the cashier at the bank. Young enough to be trainable, I hope. "We can see you at 11 a.m., Tracy. Dr. Goodteeth just had a cancellation." Now, if my tooth hadn't just cracked in half, I'd set her straight. Rusty (Dr. Goodteeth) and I have been together for twenty odd years now, and I don't care if he calls me Tracy. But this twenty-year-old chit of a girl needs to address me as a young whippersnapper should address her elders. In the South, "Miz Tracy," is just fine. "Mrs. Dunham" is more correct, but I'll let that slip. Even, "Ma'am, the doctor can see you..." works in the South.

I have been known, much to the chagrin of my spawn, to correct said young whippersnappers. In a kindly manner, much as a grandmother would use. "Sweetie, I'm old enough to have changed your diapers. In these parts, unless I did change your britches, you may address me as 'Mrs. Dunham.' If I did change your panties, and I'd remember if I had, you are permitted to call me 'Miss Tracy.' " My children, of course, are crawling into a hole in the ground. Believe me, they know better. They address their elders with proper respect, or they'll hear from mama.

My husband, I must preface this rant, is a very good man. A man of inherent good manners and much grace, including infinite kindness. He'll stop to pick up strangers on the street who are gesturing desperately for a ride. He offers jobs to those people standing in the median strip with signs saying "Homeless. Hungry." And he buys them lunch if they are willing to work for a him. (Only one man ever took him up on his offer.) But, as a native of Chicago, he didn't learn to say "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am." I knew this when I married him. Along with his hatred of fresh tomatoes (sigh), it's his only failing. I was, however prepared. Our family repeated the following iconic story often.

My mother, during her childhood pre-WW II, lived for a year in a Chicago suburb. Her parents, being proper Southerners, taught her to say "yes, ma'am," etc., when addressing her elders. One day, her teacher sent home a note from school saying "Judith must cease speaking like a servant when she talks to me. "Ma'am" is a sign of servitude and inferiority."

My grandmother's wrath and outrage would have been a sight to behold. Wish I could have seen it. As the story was repeated quite often to describe the loutishness of Yankees, I grew accustomed to its moral. Yankees don't know diddly about good manners and the proper graces. Other Yankee peculiarities came to the fore in other stories. Being invited to dinner, then told to bring a "covered dish" of a certain type. Who invites guests to dinner then insists they feed themselves? Only Yankees. I could go on, but you get my drift. There's a social divide that has nothing to do with geography. It's all about manners.

When someone provides a service and one thanks that person, the common response today is "no problem." I want to stomp my foot and ask what happened to "you're welcome." Or even, as was once common in the South, "my pleasure." Yet today the South is slipping into the maw of a mannerless morass. I fear it's the fault of all those Yankees who've moved down here and bought their newMcMansions and expect to fit into society because they drive Beemers. I wish someone would tell them it's not going to happen. "Society" in the South is still ruled with the iron fist in the white glove by ladies who may not have two nickels to their names, but their grandmother's pearls are heirlooms still worn today, their sterling came down through the family for generations, and they were educated at Miss Jennie's, as were their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And Miss Jennie's doesn't accept girls without the proper pedigree and impeccable manners.

Manners will get you places, my mama and grandmothers always preached. I still think they're right.

Short Track Season and Gettin' It done

The writing flows, the futuristic has me guessing (I love it when a story surprises me), and I've finished judging the contest entries I agreed to judge way back when I thought I'd have time. It's too wet and rainy out to do yard work, so I'm pretty much keeping the hands on the keyboard. Last weekend's Nationwide race in Mexico City didn't hold my attention, so I saved four hours there! Yep, keeping the fanny in the desk chair is paying off.

Since it's a week and a half until the Richmond races, this is good. Once next Monday hits, I'm going into tailgating overdrive. Gotta get the race gear loaded, menus planned, and the flags ready to fly from the flagpole on the truck. After seven straight weekends of rain, I'm praying we're done with this batch of wet, and we'll finally have a lovely Friday and Saturday for racin'. The racing gods owe me a good one after the rain and cold in Martinsville.

It's all good from here on out. . . the cold weather is history, the trees have leaves, and I'm ready for summer and summer's races at my local short track.

Life Intervenes

Sigh. The writing has taken a step back because I've been inundated with . . . life. Too many volunteer activities turning into full-time jobs. I need to step back and let the distractions fall into the shadows while I turn the light up on the writing. Revisions, new stuff, queries, the business part of writing, take a lot of energy and time. I must learn to say NO to the other stuff, although I believe strongly in giving back to nonprofit organizations that need help.

Then there's the four hours I wasted this morning. The state bar association won't like me saying this, but I just killed brain cells in a continuing legal education seminar on ethics. Yeah, ethics. If I don't have ethics by now, I think it's a lost cause. Five hundred men in bow ties and dark suits give off vibes that aren't pleasant, particularly when they're stressing over such life-altering topics as metadata in attachments and accepting credit card payments for trust accounts. Yes, moving, stirring, soul-searching topics.

Tomorrow, I'm ignoring email, forgetting today, working on my book, and getting into a better place, LOL.

Spring, Texas Wrecks, and Blessings

I'll bet Michael McDowell is counting his blessings,big time, after barrel-rolling eight times after hitting the wall during qualifying yesterday. If anyone has any complaints about the new car, I suggest you keep them to yourself. The SAFER barrier and the new car saved the rookie driver's life, hands down. Enough said. He'll be racing Sunday, in another car of course, and I'll bet he'll remember every second of that race because he almost wasn't in it.

The rains have continued their weekend appearance, the tulips are up, my lilies of the valley are spreading like wildfire, and the azaleas are just gorgeous. Happy days are here! I'm still working like crazy to cut some hundred-odd pages from DEAD CALM, but it's downhill from here. As Michael McDowell is probably saying, "Life is good."

Cold, Rain, Wind, and the Race Fan

Boy howdy, was Martinsville a true test of fortitude for race fans. Sleet awoke us early on race day, and while it gave way to rain, the weather didn't offer us much of a break. Forty-one degrees and a steady drizzle, combined with a stiff wind, scattered a ton of fans before a hundred laps were completed. If the race hadn't been so good, we would have left as well. Took two days for me to feel my feet again. Fan Fest with Tony Stewart was a hoot - he's funny and self-deprecating, and totally himself. Even better, the tent where the fest was held provided some protection from the wind. I seriously considered staying in it and watching the race on our Fan View, but what kind of die hard fan would that make me? So we toughed it out in the stands and were rewarded with one heck of a race.

Now it's time to crack down and get serious about cutting 120 pages from the Golden Oars mystery. Forty pages down, eighty to go, but I'm seeing holes that need plugging. Sigh. That means adding chapters. Keeping it under 450 pages is going to be a trick, LOL. That's the trouble with writing "long," it never feels right to cut. A main subplot has to go, and while I'm not happy about it, it's already in the "delete" pile. By the way, has anyone ever heard of a rose named Fred? It's a favorite joke in this book, but it had to go away to make room for a red herring. Someday, it'll show up again, and I hope everyone else laughs as much as I did over it. Can't claim credit - my co-author, Kat Jorgensen, came up with the hilarious set-up and Fred the rose. Gives you an idea of how zany this book is. . . .

Looking forward to the Richmond race in May. Here's hoping it's warmer than Martinsville.

Martinsville!

Heading out soon for a weekend of racing at Martinsville, one of my two favorite tracks. It's a little track (about a half mile), built like a paperclip, and full of beatin' and bangin' in a normal race. I'm so looking forward to this one, even if Ward Burton isn't driving this year. I'll be flying his flag (the #4 Morgan-McClure car that's no longer sponsored and thus, not running) anyway. Some of us hang on longer than others, LOL. Busy packing up the racing gear, the Fan View (cool gizmo!), food, seats, and expecting a good time.

I've been examining the effects of class on a future society in a new story I'm playing with. Although Americans consider themselves classless, and the Brits see us that way from what I hear, that's not the truth. While the British and say, Indians (as in Eastern Indian, not Native American) have distinct caste or class systems that persevere despite changes within society, ours are more subtle, based upon economic brackets and racial stereotypes. What happens when those divisions become ingrained and unassailable a hundred or so years from now? What if there's a rebellion to overthrow them? What if the rebellion isn't warfare, but more subtle, as in forbidden intermarriages? I have no idea where this story originated (well, actually, I do) but it's so far from my norm, which is a character-driven tale, that I'm learning a lot about myself as a writer as I work on it. Plotting has been a real eye-opener. Normally, my stories are driven by internal conflicts, but this one hinges on a huge external conflict, and the effect it has on the characters. It's hugely challenging and fun at the same time.

Hopefully, I'll get some good pix from Martinsville. Talk about a classless society - race fans are the epitome. The only hierarchy hinges on if your driver is winning or tanking. Then there's either shared glee or a lot of head-shaking and heavy sighs.

Leveling the Playing Field

I read in today's paper that David Reutimann, he of the #99 Nationwide car, said he'd willingly forgo points and money if more money went into the pockets of the Nationwide regulars. He is not a NW regular, having a seat as well in the #44 Cup car. (Go David!) At first, I thought, "gee, why would he say that?" until I saw the broader picture.

As long as Cup regular drivers dominate and win in the lower level racing series, those cars that come from smaller garages without the resources for wind tunnel testing and fancy engineering will finish farther down the food chain. Less money equals fewer dollars to pay for good equipment which equals poorer running cars which equals. . . . You get the picture. The classic vicious cycle. If the racing is dominated by Cup cars and Cup drivers, the series will die. Who wants Cup Lite? If there's no Nationwide series racing, those Cup drivers who enjoy it, like David Reutimann, Carl Edwards, and Jeff Burton, won't have anywhere to play without the pressure of the all-important Cup points.

Establish a hierarchy now. Regular Nationwide cars coming from stables with no Cup contenders get more points and more money. Nourish the little guys. They'll get stronger when there are more bucks to pour into their cars, and the whole series will flourish. Good for David Reutimann for saying what he did.

In a way, it's like publishing. Big names, big stars get big bucks. As well they should. But the more they're paid, and the tighter dollars become in the publishing business, the fewer dollars trickle down to the midlist writers. The writers who fill the shelves and have devoted followings, just not in the millions. The writers who are the backbone of the business. Not everyone wants to read Hillary Clinton's book, paid for with a huge advance. A seriously dedicated group will always run right past the displays in the front of the store for the mystery section or any other genre buried in the back corner to see if there's a new gem from ____________. (Fill in the blank with any name.) As publishing pennies get pinched, these books will disappear. Didn't sell enough, will be the reason. The truth is, the print run was tiny to begin, and no money went into publicity. Do we want our reading dictated by money paid to "names?" Hmmm. Kinda similar to the situation in the Nationwide series, n'est-ce pas?

Spring, Writers, and Distractions

The forsythia has finally dotted my yard with its brilliant yellow blooms, the daffodils are hanging in there despite a high wind, and I do declare, the red buds are out. Yeah! There's hope!

This time of year is dangerous for a writer. I have a ton of work - rewrites, new stuff - to do, but outside my office window the yard is singing its siren song. (How's that for alliteration, LOL?) I want to move some plants, dig up a couple of Lelands that are thoroughly dead, and generally play with dirt. Keeping my fanny in my desk chair is taking a ton of will power. We'll see how long it lasts...

I've been thinking about writers and communities. Many of us seek out others who are like us - buried in story ideas we barely have time to sketch onto note cards before another plot pops into our heads. It's crazy, living in your mind with fictional people, for hours every day. Crawling out of our manuscripts takes time and planning, and is perhaps the hardest thing we do for ourselves. My husband knows when the writing hasn't gone well that day, and is a smart enough man to say encouraging words and commiserate with complete sincerity. His creative streak understands mine, which is why we've been married many a year now, I'm sure.

Talking with other writers never fails to energize me. Creative people "get"it. The dichotomy between the non-crazies (people who live normal lives) and those of us who are a bit "touched," as we say in the South, never fails to surprise me. It's reached the point where I try NOT to tell people what I do whenever I'm asked in a social setting. Either I get a glazed look like "are you lying?" to "have you ever published anything? No, really, I mean anything good" to "why would you want to do that?" and "I read some dirty words you wrote, how could you?" (Well, it wasn't ME, it was the fictional character, and it was part of who she was, you idjit!) That's my rant for the day, and no, not anyone can write a book. How many wannabes have started chapter 1, only to crash and burn by page twenty? You can't imagine.

By way of distraction (and there are many besides my yard, my children, and my beloved), I've become hooked on a NASCAR blog dedicated to analyzing television coverage of the sport. www.dalyplanet.blogspot.com hosts a dedicated group of racing fans who aren't afraid to speak up about what they like and don't like on Speed TV and ESPN, not to mention Fox and TNT. It's like having a heated discussion with people who pay attention to how the sport is covered. It has certainly opened my eyes to another world about which I knew nothing. Imagine programming execs paying attention to what the great unwashed masses want? Miracles do happen, it seems.

Since this is the season of miracles, Happy Easter to one and all.

Not Talking about It

Cheating, the encore. I started to rant and rave about the governor of New York and his poor, beaten-looking wife ("Honey, I need you to put on your sincere suit and your good pearls and back me up when I confess, because I got caught by the Feds, to paying for high-priced hookers."), but it's just too ugly. Too sad. I hope spouses everywhere learned a lesson from this. You can't hide evil. It will be exposed.

I'm working on something new, while I still fiddle with rewrites on LOLA and DARKROOM. For once, I'm working off a theme and not the characters. It's a futuristic story and in it, lawyers are hired gladiators. Reaching age 30 is unheard-of. The characters came to me fully clothed, living, and breathing, but the theme spoke even more clearly. I've always been impressed by Barbara Kingsolver's approach to her books - she starts with the theme and builds a story around it. Never was able to do that myself. But I'm writing that way now, and it's happening. The proof, as they say, will be in the pudding, if I can sustain the story this way. It's fun so far.

The Golden Oars mystery, the first in a series my good friend Kat Jorgensen and I are writing, is drawing to a close. We have way too many pages, a ton of good stuff we'll have to cut, but that's the nice part about planning a series. We can use the goodies in another book. The four crime-fighting middle-aged to octogenarian members of an all-women crew team turned out to be both funny and poignant. We love them, and hope to find them a good home. (As in publishing house, not retirement, LOL.)

Cheating and The Clean Cut Kid

Carl Edwards, he of the super abs, aw-shucks grin, sparkly white teeth, and on-the-surface-sunny attitude towards life, has been docked 100 points, lost his crew chief for six races, and seen a hundred grand fine levied against Bob Osborne, his crew chief. Jack Roush, the Cat in the Hat, lost a hundred owner points, plus his driver, Carl, had the ten extra win-points for smashing the field in California last weekend ground down the dispose-all. NASCAR is proving it's made of stern stuff, a refrain that has been heard a lot since Daytona 2007. Was the penalty appropriate for a lid missing off an oil tank in the #99 car? Hmmm. Roush's guys say the bolt that held it down came off, as did the lid. Accident. No harm. No foul. Roush's Geoff Smith says NASCAR is cutting off hands for stealing a penny. Rusty Wallace on ESPN's Nascar Now agrees -says it wouldn't help the car's on-track performance a bit to have a missing lid.

Then why was a photo of the car, with a backflipping Carl in Victory Lane, circulated by email around the NASCAR garages? The picture clearly showed the missing lid, and the crew chiefs and car chiefs all knew what that meant. Only Toyota has given specifics, because it tested, in Germany, a car with the lid missing, and got about 170 lbs. more of downforce. And downforce means a faster car with better handling. It'll stick like glue to the track and go where the driver steers it.

Did Osborne think NASCAR wouldn't notice the missing lid? Not care? How can anyone be so clueless and be a crew chief? This sort of thing doesn't help Carl Edwards a bit. A lot of fans still remember his on-camera act when he threatened Matt Kenseth last fall in Martinsville. The good ole Missouri boy morphed into a snarling, fist-pumping jerk. Maybe he was having a bad day (well, duh, yeah!), but don't act like the Hulk in front of a camera with a Speed reporter holding a microphone in Kenseth's face. You're bound to get caught. And he did.

And so did Bob Osborne. Play it straight, guys. Cheating isn't the right way to win. NASCAR has taught that lesson over and over - when will you get it? My parents taught me that lesson at a very young age, and I've never forgotten it.

The Black Screen of Death

Many computers and I have traveled these perilous roads of the Internet together. Starting way,way back when Dells were user-friendly and WP was the word processor that came with them, I've been present at the slow demise of too many of these incredible and totally mysterious creatures. They hiccup, they cough, they slow down, they slowly grind themselves up in the morning, until I give up. Sending them to the attic, the boneyard of dead computers, happens when I just can't figure out why they aren't working like they used to, and I've spent too much money on experts who can't tell me either.

The HP laptop from hell gave me no warning. Not a blip on the screen. I was writing away, (thanking my lucky stars I'd just backed up the last half hour of work on the jump drive) when the screen flipped to darkest black. Outer space, no stars, no galaxies, blackblack. This is the same laptop that, when it came out of the box two years ago, dropped keys, and HP told me it was "user error" and they wouldn't replace the keyboard unless I paid them big bucks. Stellar customer service. I should have known it was an omen. But for two years, I've written books, downloaded to my itunes, and ignored the HP's failings. And this is how it pays me back.

Of course I didn't have everything backed up. The HP is at the shop now, and if my guru can't get stuff off the hard drive, I'm sunk. Into the deep. No air tanks. The latest version of LOLA, which I've been rewriting over and over to get it right, isn't on the jump drive. I know, I checked. I deserve what I get for being so stupid, but sheesh...I never expected an instantaneous black screen of death.

I think I'll work on taxes. That should make my day complete.

On another grumpy note, I have to say, I hated the movie that won the Oscar for Best Picture. It's the only movie last year I wanted to leave before it was over. No hero's journey, nothing redeeming, nothing but unremitting violence that exceeded even my pretty tolerant limit.

I should go back to bed and pull the covers over my head, LOL.

Been a while...

I guess I've been basking in the joy of the start of a new racing season, which is a pretty lame excuse for not posting. Still, Daytona was a good race. Not the heartbreaking ending last year, when Harvick nosed out Mark Martin, but no complaints here. Kinda ironic that Kurt Busch pushed Newman past Tony Stewart, given their contretemps earlier in the week and subsequent trip The Hauler Where Bad Boy Racers Go.

It's almost that time again!






Yes, I can almost feel the stands trembling, hear the engines roar (tho the COT just doesn't sound the same, sigh), smell the exhaust fumes. Daytona's Bud Pole Shootout is this Saturday, and starts the new year of NASCAR racing. I'm psyched. Even though Ward Burton doesn't have a ride, I'm ready to roll. We're not going this year - other obligations have intervened - but at least we did FanFest in January with the testing as a bonus. I'll be pulling for all the underdogs - Ken Schrader in BAM's car, David Reutimann (go David!), and for Boris Said to get the pole. He deserves it, after losing it last July to a thunderstorm that forced qualifying to wash out with him sitting on the pole. Being outside the owner's points meant he had to go home after a lightning fast qualifying run earlier in the day. Bummer, she said.


So, I finally figured out this digital camera. Can't seem to make the video I did while running the Daytona track work except on my computer, so it's not going to show up. Believe me when I tell you, the track is bumpy like crazy around turns one and two. A real rollercoaster. At a measly 120 mph in a standard Impala SS (very cool car), my stomach hit the roof of my mouth. Add about 70 mph more, and I'll bet it's downright scary for those of us with common sense and no death wish. The guys out there driving those speeds probably think it's a ton of fun. And that's why they earn the big bucks.


I'll post pictures of the track and fanfest - you might be able to pick out Robbie Gordon, Jimmie Johnson, Casey Mears, Carl Edwards, David Reutimann, and Greg Biffle. It was night, so lighting was minimalist. I have another batch of pictures with Jeff Gordon, Juan Montoya, Reed Sorenson, and Jacques Villeneuve, which I'll try to post later.
On a writing note, 22 pages yesterday! Yes!!

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

Oh my oh my - just by chance, I stumbled upon The Ghost and Mrs. Muir on TCM the other Sunday, just before the Super Bowl. I was in the throes of pulling together a big bowl of homemade potato salad, needed more sour cream, the grocery store was a nightmare, and feeling generally tired of the whole Big Game Party scene, when I saw that the movie was starting. Grabbing my hubby, who only remembered the TV series (which I never saw), I plunked him down beside me to watch. I've never forgotten seeing the flick on TV when I was about 13, I guess - it was instant adoration. Gene Tierney was lovely, Rex Harrison sexy, and a ghost story to boot - what else could a girl want? That was all I remembered, and watching it again lo these many years later, I had to laugh. Looking back while enjoying the movie all over again, I know what caught my fancy all those years ago - the notion that one could write a book, walk into a publisher's office, and leave three hours later with a contract and advance large enough to buy a house overlooking the sea. Plus, it was an impossible love story. If only I'd known when I was 13 what I know now, LOL, about publishing and writing. However, this time around I noticed the witty dialogue, how it defined the characters so clearly, and how much I miss that sort of art in newer movies. Next thing you know, I'll be sounding like an old fogey! Oh, and the lighting - just perfection. If you get a chance, watch it.

On a literary note, Leigh Wyndfield has a book launching today. SECRET OBSESSION is marvelous - I read it in draft mode and was sucked into the very original romance to such an extent, I remember it vividly a year later. Set on an island off the Outer Banks of North Carolina, it has a setting and characters you don't see in romances today, especially the sexier ones. This one has just the right amount of hot for those of you who like your romances that way. I highly recommend it.