I made the mistake of watching the following while working at the library.  I had headphones on rather that the speaker, so the disturbance wasn’t hearing the audio from the clip…it was my reaction. 

I’m STILL laughing…

 Today's Card--The Magician!

People who have known me for a long time are often surprised when they learn that I read Tarot cards.  It’s a relatively recent development—I picked up a set when I’d been approached to write a romance novel with a tarot theme.  I knew enough about Tarot to understand that it was something you can’t fake. 

Getting Tarot wrong is sort of like writing a Regency romance and putting the courses in the wrong order at dinner or addressing a Viscount incorrectly—the author gets hate mail.  Just as there are people who have memorized and hold dear every detail of early 19^th century English social convention, there are those who can recite the Fool’s Journey backwards and take it very, very seriously.

I was always a good student and I’m pretty good at fact absorption, so I figured it would be easy to learn Tarot.  I bought Tarot For Dummies and a Rider-Waite deck, and started at lesson one.

And I did learn.  I learned there were 78 cards in the deck, including 22 Major Arcana (unsuited) cards and 56 Minor Arcana (suited) cards.   I used various mnemonic devices and other learning tools to memorize the cards.  And I did readings, lots and lots of readings.  My friends, my family, my coworkers and my neighbors must have gotten tired of me chasing them around, deck in hand, begging them to let me read their cards.  One card readings, three card readings, Celtic cross readings...I tried them all.

But it just wasn’t clicking.  I’d lay the cards out and ponder the meanings, progressions, reversals and combinations, often having to resort to reference books.   I’d recite the memorized meanings and people would look at me blankly. 

So I went back to the text books—by this time I’d accumulated a stack of them—and found that I was supposed to not only read the cards, I was supposed to “interpret” them.   I was getting frustrated and about to hang the whole thing up when something happened.

Several of my text books and a couple of readers I consulted had all given me the same piece of advice:  If the cards aren’t “speaking to you,” then try a different deck.  And, oh boy, did I.     Buying Tarot decks became an obsession.  At one point I had a couple of dozen. 

Then, one day I was looking on line for some hints about a puzzling configuration I’d drawn in a reading, and I came across the image of a single card.  It was the Fool, the zero card in the Major Arcana, and wasn’t even one of the cards in the spread I was trying to interpret.  A reference in the article told me the name of the artist who had drawn the card, and I went to his website and ordered the deck.

From the moment I held this new deck in my hands, everything changed.  The spreads made sense.  The progressions were as clear in my head as if I had GPS.  The blank looks of my victims  subjects were replaced by expressions of startled recognition.  And, suddenly, I was really enjoying doing readings.

Like most readers, I am more or less unable to do a reading for myself, as I tend to put the spin I want to see, rather than the spin I need to see, on the combinations.  But I do draw a single card, sort of like checking out your horoscope.  I have found that, on those days I don’t like the cards message, shuffling it back into the deck and drawing a new card does not work.  About half the time I draw the same card again, and the other half I draw a card that means substantially the same thing.

My beautiful deck, the Gilded Tarot by Ciromarchetti, is no longer being produced, but you can still find cards out there.  The artist has a new deck, the Tarot of Dreams, that I find almost equally compelling.  

I do free 3-card Tarot readings at all my book signings.  Stop by!  I’d love to do one for you.

Hey, all!

I’m the guest blogger today at the Harlequin Paranormal Blog.  (They stuck an announcement for a charity fundraiser in on top of me, so a lot of people might miss it, but it would be evil of me to complain, so…)

Stop by, read, leave a comment…I’m in pretty fabulous company there and want to show them I can stand up next to the big girls!

The FIVES (Thanks, Hilda)

Top Five Rock 'n Roll Hunks

I just spent two weeks in a pool house in Long Beach, California.  “We really need to get a TV out there,” said my hosts.

“Don’t bother,” I replied.  “I’ll be fine.”  I wasn’t sure I would be, but I figured I could always go into the house and sit in their darkened media room and watch the big LCD if I needed a fix. 

But, surprisingly, I didn’t.  I was busy, had writing to do, had correspondence to handle, a radio and some books to read.  I just didn’t feel the need, which surprised me.

I’m not an anti-television snob.  I was listening to This American Life and there was a story featuring a man who literally did not watch any television, and he joked about people who pretend they don’t watch network television but secretly do.  “I don’t usually watch television,” they say.  “But I do enjoy Nova.”

Seriously, I try not to be a couch potato but, if it’s on, I watch it.  And, I am one of these people that when the TV is on, I watch it in a trancelike state.  Sitcoms I hate. Reality shows that horrify me.  Commercials.  Even bad commercials—the ones that make me feel as if I’m chewing aluminum foil.  I can’t seem to stop myself.

I live in a tiny cottage where the largest central room contains my office, my dining table and my living area.  Oh, and the TV.  So, yes, it does get watched. 

In my defense, my brother is living here, too, and he does turn on the TV when I probably would not.  In addition to movies, which he loves, he watches local sports team and the channel that broadcasts all public meetings involving the state legislature.   The people that get up and speak in favor or against a bill are more interesting than you might think. 

When Bob moves back to his summer home in a week or two, the real test will begin.  Will the hours I spend spellbound by ads for products for which I have no use decline?  Will I limit myself only to the shows I consider to be really good:  House, Grey’s Anatomy, Ugly Betty, and Desperate Housewives?

Will I get more reading done?

Will I get more writing done?

By the way, I am working on a proposal for a book that has me so excited I have a hard containing myself.  I can’t reveal details yet, until I have the proposal in the hands of my agent and thus documented—but it’s HOT.  Maybe I better unplug the TV until I get it done.

When I first decided to become a writer, I fantasized about the day when I would go on a book tour.  I’d travel to wonderful cities, stay in nice hotels and eat room service breakfasts before heading off to a round of speaking engagements where I would meet my adoring fans.

I was disabused of this fantasy during one of my earliest writers’ conferences, when I sat in on a discussion group of seasoned writers, including some who had appeared on the New York Times Bestsellers list.  It was an eye opener.

First, none of them had tours arranged by their publisher.  Some were prosperous enough to employ publicists to do the footwork, but most of them made the calls and set the schedules themselves.  They talked about how reluctant many book store owners and managers were to work with them, how far in advance schedules had to be set, and how they often showed up to find the bookstores had forgotten to order copies of their books.  (Note to self—call the Barnes & Noble in Long Beach and make sure they are ready for this Thursday.) 

None (as in NOT ONE) of their publishers paid for transportation or accommodations on their tours.  I heard stories of how they traveled in groups, four to a two-bed room in a seedy hotel, and lived on Top Ramen.

Then there were the actual appearances. Every one of them had experienced a signing where they sold not a single book.  One told a hilarious story about waiting for hours, unnoticed, at her goodie-laden signing table, only to be snubbed by all passers by.  Finally, a friendly looking woman approached her.  “I don’t want a book,” she said, “Can I still have a cookie?”

One author had even written a humorous song about a long afternoon spent at a table in front of Walden Books at some unnamed mall entitled “Nobody Came.”  He sang it for us.  All four verses.

I laughed dutifully.  And vowed it would never happen to me.

But, it did!  I arranged two group events for the Connecticut Romance writers that turned out to be total busts.  I toured libraries and, on two occasions, had no one show up for my lecture.

However, I was still determined to have a book tour.  With a real launch party.  At a location that appeared in my book.

So, for my May 1^st release, I made a plan.  Agreeing to do all the footwork, I was surprised when my publisher actually did come up with a (very) little money for the event, and printed up posters for me.  As earlier posts show, I found getting people on the phone just as difficult as that group of writers warned.

But I still did it.  I scheduled a two-week tour in California, with six appearances and a real launch party.  I sent engraved invitations, put ads in papers, called reporters, notified local civic leaders, talked to libraries, dropped off bookmarks and flyers—the works.

I also arranged for free lodging and transportation.  No room service, but my friends’ pool house is at least as comfortable as any hotel room.  And my borrowed car runs just fine, although having no air conditioning has required some logistical strategies to arrive at signings with hair in order and no visible sweat rings.

I’m halfway through and so far, it’s been pretty great. 

Okay, so there were a few road bumps.

The posters with which I had intended to paper the town where the launch was held did not arrive until two days before the event.  I got them up, but I’m not sure how effective they were.

Some of the notables who had sent RSVPs for the launch were no-shows.  This included the Mayor Pro Tem of Newport Beach, several important book store owners, representatives of the Travel and Convention Bureau.  On the other hand, some unexpected old friends showed up and my liquor bill was way lower than I feared.

The store for the Friday night signing forgot to order the books, but scrambled to get copies from some other branches.  Luckily, I had a few in my car.  Also, it was at a trendy outdoor mall and I had no idea this became a hangout for teenagers beginning about 6:30 PM.  Luckily I sold enough books to adults before then to make up for the line of non-buying adolescents that lined up to talk to me and take advantage of my bribes (free Tarot readings) in the later hours.

On Saturday, I sat in one of the emptiest stores I have ever seen.  A huge, well maintained and beautiful Borders, there was barely enough foot traffic to keep the doors open.  I somehow managed to sell about ten books—I’m an excellent ambusher.

Then, there was yesterday at the Fashion Island Barnes & Noble in Newport Beach.  This made up for everything.  They’d remembered to order, including copies of Beg for Mercy, the first book in the series, and gave me excellent placement.  I sold out of every copy they had in stock and had to go get more from my car.  Whoopee!

I have a couple of days off before I resume my appearances, and then fly back to Connecticut.

Has my tour been everything I dreamed of, back in my naive first days?  No, of course not.  But I can’t complain.  

I’m definitely going to do this again next year, when the next installment comes out.  I’ve learned a couple of lessons and gotten (too late for this trip, but excellent—thanks Jann!) a good list of local media contacts. 

And I just love this pool house!

I love lists.

I make a list before I clean my house, go to the grocery store, or settle down to serious work for the day.   If I attend a lecture or workshop, and there’s a Q & A, I jot down a list of questions before raising my hand.  I have lists of bookstores, media contacts, books I want to read in the future, books I want to write in the future, workshops I want to develop, and marketing and publicity ideas.

Now, I’m getting ready to leave for California for a two-week mini-publicity tour, with time allotted for research, and I have a whole SERIES of lists.

-         Launch party RSVP list

-         Launch party invitees who haven’t RSVP’d, so I need to call and harass

-         Press members who haven’t yet scheduled an interview

-         People I have to call re: local research items

-         Events list (with outfits planned)

-         Full clothing packing list, including shoes, underwear, accessories and jewelry

-         List of toiletries needed

-         List of medications and vitamins to pack

-         List of people to contact and notify I’m going to be out of town.

-         List of emergency contact numbers in California

-         List of things I’m having shipped to California (books, posters)

-         List of bookstores where I am not signing, but need to go by and sign stock

-         List of marketing materials I am carrying with me

-         List of business tools I need so I can write/work while I am there

-         List of things I need to get done around the house before I leave

Oh, GAWD, it’s a list of lists.   This reminds me of my corporate days, when we once had a meeting about meetings.

Is there a twelve step group for this?  There should be.

“Without caffeine, I have no personality whatsoever.” – Mercy Hollings, Beg for Mercy

People ask me if Mercy Hollings, the character in my series, is based on me.  The short answer is “no.”   I am neither brooding nor a loner, I wear bright colors and own enough makeup and hair-care products to pose a storage issue.   I have no paranormal abilities beyond an aptitude for Tarot cards and would no more own a 135-pound Rottweiller than I would a baboon.  And I really don’t like baboons.

That said, Mercy and I do share a few traits and a common experience or two.  We like the same restaurants.  We both wish Sam Shepherd was fifteen years younger, single, and living next door.  We like dirty vodka martinis with blue cheese olives.

And neither of us can function without coffee.

My doctor told me I should “lay off the caffeine.” 

Whoa, I tried to protest.  I’ve already cut back from six or eight cups a day to one or two.  I stopped using artificial sweetener and, when at home, lighten my coffee with soy rather than my preferred half and half. 

So, for the first time in my life, I am going to completely ignore my doctor’s advice.  Sorry.  I’ll quit a lot of things, but not coffee.

Does anything smell as wonderful as a freshly opened bag of Columbian beans?  Kona while it’s brewing?  A corner shop that roasts its own beans?

Coffee is what gets me up in the morning, especially on those days when the bed is just sooooo comfortable.  I imagine that freshly brewed cup, and my feet find the floor.

Currently, I’m hooked on Senseo dark roast.  My ex-boyfriend got a Senseo pot with a selection of coffee in an office gift exchange a few years ago.  It sat in the box for a good six months.  Neither of us, accustomed to grinding our own beans as needed, could imagine drinking coffee made from pre-prepared pods.  But, one morning we were out of coffee, so we set it up.  And were immediately hooked.

Of course, the cost of Senseo pods is about three times that of whole beans.  And it uses so much electricity (for about thirty seconds) that, when I use it in my motor home, the generator audibly struggles.    But I love them.

I’m not big on flavored coffee, with the occasional exception.  I like coffee made with real pecans, like you see in some southern cities.   Chicory is okay, at least at the Café du Monde with a beignet on the side.  And I used to get the organic beans mixed with dehydrated orange peel that were kind of interesting.  But mainly, I just want a basic dark roast Columbian coffee.

Mmmmm…time for another cup!

Check it out!  I got the posters for my mini-publicity tour for ANGEL OF MERCY.

Sweet!

Isn’t in March that’s supposed to come in like a lion?

I guess old Leo has a sense of humor, because he’s back on April Fool’s Day.  It’s blustery and wet, although not especially cold. 

When I moved here from Miami, everyone told me I wouldn’t be able to stand the winter.  They were wrong—I stood it just fine.  I was excited about every snow fall and even kind of enjoyed driving on slippery roads, as long as they weren’t crowded.  Hydroplaning can be fun, given the right mental attitude.

But, now that we’re in what is unofficially known as the Mud Season, like everyone else around these parts, I’m ready for Spring.

Spring officially started a couple of weeks ago, but the signs are slow in coming.  The jonquils and daffodils haven’t made an appearance yet, and the bare trees haven’t quite taken on the reddish cast that means they’re covered with buds.

The ground is mushy in that way that only happens when the top inch or two has thawed and the ground underneath is still frozen.   Because they don’t like walking on it, the cats are hanging out in the house, and there are serious territorial issues.  I’ve been serenaded with kitty/ninja noises for days.

This past Saturday, friends threw their annual party, where they spread beach blankets indoors in front of the fireplace and everyone is asked to wear beach clothes or something on a tropical theme.  I dutifully dug out sandals, baggy white linen pants, a Hawaiian shirt and a fake hibiscus for my hair.  The outfit looked odd against fish-belly-white skin, but what the heck.  I covered it all with a wool coat and stepped outside.

I almost froze on the way to the car.

Once there, it was fun.  They had heated up the inside of the house to a degree that the spoil-sports who had showed up in weather-appropriate clothing whined that they were overheated.  Poor babies.  We played reggae music and drank beer and ate guacamole.  It was a lot of fun.

Of course, by the time we left (well after midnight) the temperature outside had dropped fifteen degrees so, when we stepped outside, my girlfriend and I got a sobering reminder that it would be a good three months before we wore these outfits again.

Back to wool socks. *Sigh*