Hm.

Now, I’ve been single a long time. But immediately my mind leaped backwards, over two boyfriends and into a time when I pondered the same thing about my husband. And before I could stop it, out of my mouth came, “Used books and lead figurines.”

Lord, what a memory.

Once upon a time, before Amazon, before eBay, there was only one way to collect your favorite author’s backlist: used book stores. And I spent many an hour searching dusty, cluttered storefronts, prowling through unorganized stacks of books, looking for old editions from Piers Anthony, Roger Zelazny, Michael Moorcock, Philip K. Dick, and dozens of other authors.

My ex and I read a lot of science fiction, but on top of that, he was a gamer, and discovered a pastime that helped him relax…and made me nuts. He painted 25mm lead figurines for his role playing games. Preferably from Ral Partha, a high-quality company started in 1975 by a 16-year-old sculptor and 5 gaming buddies. Some of his prized favorites were the complex, expensive dragons.

So the best gifts wound up being acid-yellowed books and lead dragons. Not easy to find, and it made finding a store like South Bend’s The Griffon akin to digging up treasure in your backyard.

The point?

“Follow his interests, and do something special,” I told her. “Forget the card and buy him a lead dragon.”

Yeah, ok, she looked at me a little funny at that last part.

She did get that Valentine’s Day isn’t really about chocolate hearts and Hallmark cards. It’s about paying attention.

The world is simply different at night. I love night sounds, the way the air smells. I enjoy life in a relatively safe neighborhood, so I’ve gone for many a midnight walk. You learn things about your neighbors that you wouldn’t otherwise, such as who leaves their dog out, which house the raccoons and possums prefer, and who else is a night owl. The fact that I know who watches Colbert or Letterman tells me whose house I could knock on if trouble did arise on the street.

Music plays a part in the night owl’s journey. If I’m not out wandering into one of the venues here in town, I’ve got it cranked on the speakers, especially if Rachel isn’t home.

I write a lot at night, usually until the creative part of my brain slows, then halts. That’s how I know that it’s bed time. Even then I may not give in, switching over to things like blogs . . . or something that just strikes my fancy.

Tonight it was Plenty of Fish, a dating site. I set up a profile, posted a few pictures. Probably nothing will come of it; I don’t play well on paper, and I’ve never been particularly good at talking with strange men.

Make that men who are strangers. I actually do OK with strange men, geek girl that I am.

Yeah, that’s a writer’s comment. That’s OK. It’s three in the morning, the music is jamming, and I’m wondering if I have another chapter in my head. I’m also wondering if it would be safe to go alone to this little hideaway place in Madison; I hear they have bluegrass jams twice a week….

I’ll probably come to my senses once the sun is up.

Maybe.

But probably not.

Unexpectedly. Mysteriously.

Annoyingly.

If you’ve been following this blog recently, you know I’ve updated my website. Liz did a great job, but in doing the update, she switched email programs on me. So currently, I can log on to two different servers, both which have email from the website.

As if I weren’t confused before.

One of these IS going away, so I have about two weeks to empty the hundreds of emails I’ve saved on that server to another account. In doing this I’ve made a rather disturbing find.

Unanswered emails that date back almost two years. Yikes!!

(Picture one tired writer heaving a deep sigh.)

Now this is no one’s fault but my own and my ineptitude with filters, spam controls, and a tendency to forget about emails that have been read and marked for response once they’ve scrolled two or three pages over.

I love email. Dearly. I depend on it. Addicted to it. Find it the best way to communicate since I was sending penpal letters to Ireland in junior high. But just as letters sometime disappear into the dead letter bin, email poofs into the Ethernet (or just my inbox) never to be seen again.

So if you’ve written me and didn’t hear back, I apologize. I found some of you. I hope all.

But as with socks and dryers, you just never know.

My socks watching Castle

1 AM, and I just don’t want the music to stop.

This was not a metaphor for some life issue. As my energy waned, I felt my creativity draining. Yet one of my Pandora stations sang on, in the midst of songs that spurred me on.

I love music. All kinds of music. And this night the songs were cooking, each one better than the last. Finally, at 2:36 am, one of my whirling dervish, tarantella-making songs came on, and I cranked it up, shouting with the chorus, so loud that the air vents in my speakers were whuffing my hair away from my face.

There’s a reason I live in a house.

I needed to sleep, but I literally did not want the music to stop. So I started this entry, typing madly as I sang and shouted as two more great songs followed.

No, I’m not easy to live with. Not unless you like a maniac bouncing around the house at 3am, wanting to dance instead of sleep.

And, yep, in the midst of this mania, I went back to work, typing not only this, but the next chapter of a book that’s been plaguing me.

God speaks to me through music, and I admire songwriters and musicians who can take their art to the highest level, in whatever genre.

Sing to us, speak to us, show us God’s glory. And may the music never stop.

Confession: I’d like to start dating again. Don’t ask. Sometimes I look around and think this would be a HUGE mistake. Other times . . . well, I dream on. So I have profiles on Plenty of Fish and eHarmony, both currently hidden.

Here’s why they’re hidden. My friends tell me that I can tell a great story, but can’t profile myself worth nothing (as we say down here). I think this reflects on how hard it is for me to write my own bio for all these PR moments as an author. My friends tell me that none of the profiles I’ve ever written “reflect” who I really am.

The result is that I’m convinced that I need to meet any potential date “in real life,” and that online would never work for me. Yet it has for a whole slew of my friends who’ve met folks to date—and marry—online.

AND—in an entirely different line of thinking—sometimes I become convinced that the restlessness in my soul, my very being, which sometimes turns my mind to “coupling,” is, instead, a nudge from a much higher place, an insistence that I’m missing out on where and how He’s trying to guide me.

But, listen as I may, nothing comes through.

Instead, I turn to the one thing, the only thing, that relieves the restlessness.

Music. As loud and intricate as I can make it.

I’m open to suggestions. Should I date? Listen harder? Or strike out and wait for the doors to open . . . or close?

Out for now. A song awaits my dancing feet.

Unlike what you might expect, 1971 was not a coming of age summer. That had happened the year before, when my brother showed up at our back door in an army uniform. In fact, nothing really major happened in 1971. At least, not to me. The country was in an uproar, but calm ruled where I was. I didn’t lose my virginity or find a dead body in the woods. I didn’t find my soulmate or discover any type of secrets about being a woman.

What I did was daydream.

That’s it. Just daydream.

You see, I was at my grandmother’s house that summer. My grandfather had died the fall before, and I guess my parents thought I might be good company for my grandmother.

I was actually pretty lousy company.

Back in Nashville, where we lived at the time, I had a lot going on. Friends. I was in the band, and in love with rock ‘n roll. I wanted to be a hippie and go to war protests, and I’d written a few pages of a “novel” about a motorcycle gang. I spent a lot of time on the back of my neighbor’s Honda motorcycle, and I was beginning to see the appeal of “bad boys.” Exploring my sexuality by writing awful romance stories with a friend, I was madly in love with John Fogarty of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cory Wells of Three Dog Night, and at least three of the Osmonds. And sometime that spring, I’d tried to run away to Los Angeles.

Did I mention I was fourteen?

OK, so maybe the trip south wasn’t just for my grandmother’s benefit.

Alabama in August is hot. Hell hot. Devil’s brew Tabasco sauce hot. And in 1971, my grandmother had no air conditioning, no indoor toilet, and a black-and-white TV that picked up two snowy channels out of Birmingham. Her radio picked up one station that played a lot of Johnny Cash and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. “The House at Pooh Corner” was one of their favorites.

My grandmother didn’t drive, and while we were only a mile from town, the road there was a busy US Highway with a lot of blind hills and non-existent shoulders. No way would she let a fourteen-year-old girl walk it alone. My great uncle, her brother, who had one glass eye and a thirty-year-old car with a ceiling that shed bits of felt when you touched it, would occasionally take me to the drugstore in town for comic books and cheesy novels.

Other than that, I was on my own.

I had expected to help my grandmother with her garden, but in August, there’s not much to do but water and wait. She’d weed, if it was needed, in the relative cool of the early morning, before I was awake.

The result was that I spent a lot of time on the front porch, listening to the radio, watching cars pass, and becoming completely enchanted with the tiniest bits of life. While my daydreams were epic adventures full of spies, romance, and rock stars, I found myself writing poems about bugs, chickens pecking in the gravel drive, and how every leaf on the mulberry tree is somehow unique. I watched dogs sleep, their muscles quivering in an infinite rabbit chase, and watch a snake climb the mulberry tree, muscles rippling in an almost inexplicable rhythm.

It was a summer of quiet, everyday sensuality, and forty years later, I still write best on the porch in summer, a fan keeping me cool, and the trees gently rustling around me. And it was on just such a heat-filled day, when the lack of stirring air meant I could hear dogs from almost a mile away, that an image and a book title became so imprinted on my brain that it’s stayed there for forty years. I had no idea what it was at the time. What the story was, or when or how I would write it.

I’ve tried over the years, but nothing has really worked. Until now.

* * *

I called her the last butterfly of summer. And that’s the title that stuck, the image that will be with me forever. She was small and yellow, flitting in that odd arrhythmic way that butterflies have as they dance around a bush full of flowers. In this case, it was a hydrangea bush, about the size of a small car. The leaves were bigger than both my hands together, and the blossoms were like cantaloupes. They were white, so she stood out, with her perfect yellow wings.

I waited for her to show up, which she did every day. She never failed to show, and she worked the hydrangea blooms like a factory worker. Steady, one at a time, and all of them. After the hydrangeas, she’d check out the vines on the fence row next to the house, then across the highway to the massive tangle of honeysuckle vines that were busily competing with the kudzu to take over the abandoned barn across the road. By fall, the kudzu would win, persistent little bugger that it is.

But in high summer, the honeysuckle still stood its ground, not wanting to give up. So there were still flowers high on the barn for my butterfly to investigate. I found myself watching for cars whenever she’d head that way, and she did almost become the bug on the windshield for a 1970 Mach 1 Mustang one horrifying afternoon.

She survived, however, continuing her daily dance until I had returned to Nashville. Hopefully, long after.

The reason my butterfly is important is that she’s a symbol of something most writers experience sooner or later. There comes a moment, sometimes an epiphanal “ah ha!” moment, when you realize you don’t see the world like everyone else around you. That you pay attention to things other people ignore while sometimes ignoring things most folks think are important. That realization is part of the writer’s journey.

Mine was not an “ah ha!” moment. It started with a butterfly, continued a few years later with a summer full of romance novels and mononucleosis, and continued to grow through a marriage, and a new acquaintance called the Internet. In 1999, a movie changed my writing world forever, and this summer, the summer of 2009, my life is changing again.

I’m back on the porch with the fan and the swing. My daughter has graduated from high school and I’ve left the day job. Abruptly, my writing hours have expanded exponentially. This time I own the porch, and it’s my responsibility to turn my daydreams into publishable stories. This is a true gift from God.

What I was thought to be deprivation of the highest order I now see was—and IS—a luxury. The porch, with no phones, no distractions.

Now I think that “the last butterfly of summer” was never meant to be a book title. It’s a writer’s journey, a full circle trip through the mind. The time and technology have arrived to share it here, and that’s what I plan to do.

I will certainly continue to share other things about my world and my life, and each of these entries will carry the defining title. I hope you will bear with me as I start the journey again, indulgent though it may be. Like my summer of 1971, it’s the little things that make up the epic tales of life.

I should be working. I have line edits, a proofing job to finish today, and work on two long-term projects waiting in the wings. Plus, calls tomorrow and next week regarding other jobs.

Instead, I’m watching the rain a few moments and thinking about CARLY. It’s the best-received book I’ve written so far. I’ve blogged my heart out on other sites, posted on Twitter and Facebook, and sent out dozens of copies to influencers. I’ve done conferences and signings . . . and I’m not sure if any of it will help sales. It hasn’t done as well on Amazon as the other two.

What it HAS done, however, it put me in touch with some marvelous readers and writers, all of whom have been encouraging, supportive, and caring. And that means more than folks may realize. That part I love.

On days like this, I think I was meant to be a freelancer. I like working at home, especially since I tend to do my best work after 4pm. I like being able to work while sun streams through the front door, take a Bible quiz for fun between tasks, or have lunch with a friend who works far away. I still work hard, spending a lot of hours editing and writing. But my stress level has dropped, and a touch of peace has settled in my life.

When things are tough, I try to remain faithful. Now that things are sweeter, I look up just as often, thankful and full of praise. So no matter what happens, I’m grateful.

This note arrived Christmas week, on a card from my first grade teacher. When I met with her during Thanksgiving, I hadn’t seen Mrs. Camp since 1964, when I left her class for the summer.

This woman – this teacher – had been vital in my becoming a writer. Her impact on me has lasted a lifetime, and involves such mundane things as the position of my hand when I write, as well as lifelong memories. It was Mrs. Camp who wisely shepherded a cluster of terrified six year olds through the assassination of John F. Kennedy so that we didn’t feel the chaos the rest of the world did.

When my mother, who recently moved into an assisted living facility, blithely announced that Mrs. Camp lived down the hall from her, I felt a grin cross God’s face. For I had already turned in the dedication to The Taking of Carly Bradford, which focuses on the teachers who have had the most influence on my life as a writer.

Mrs. Camp was first on the list.

If you’re a teacher, never doubt the potential you have for changing a life. If you’re a parent, pay attention to what your kids are saying about their teachers. Although we live in a time when stories about teachers taking advantage of students are so common they’ve become fodder for late night comics, these creatures are, thankfully, a tiny minority. Help your kids find the best teachers out there.

Good teachers are priceless.

When I saw Mrs. Camp at Christmas, she patted my arm and said, “I still can’t get Carly out of my mind.”

I’m glad, Mrs. Camp, I could return the favor, even if it did take 44 years.

Today, I attacked the house, raking leaves, cleaning ceiling fans, sweeping floors with a vacuum that’s almost more trouble than it’s worth. Ran errands and shredded about 100 credit card offers that had been piling up in my office.

Tomorrow – the bathrooms (shudder). And I still need to get the dog to the vet (she’s overdue on her shots), and find a really good repair person to fix some stuff on the house and clean the gutters.

Tonight, however, I’m planning a soundtrack.

On the ACFW loop recently, they have had a discussion about “music to write by.” Many writers compose with music in the background, either to help them focus or to set the stage of the book. I use it for both, and tonight I’ve been setting up radio stations on Pandora, trying out different music styles and seeing what will work for A Good Day for Murder.

If you have not used Pandora to sample different artists, you might give it a try. It has limits, but I’ve not found a better site so far to try out items for my “soundtracks” without digging out 100 or so CDs from my own collection. (Yes, there’s an iPod in my future, I’m sure.)

One of tomorrow’s tasks is to go through the contract for A Good Day for Murder, which arrived today. With a due date of March 1, I’ve got to boogie on a number of related tasks, including the art fact sheets (for the cover) and a preliminary search for photos that represent a variety of ideas for the cover. And right now, I don’t have a clue . . .

And you may think I’m crazy with this next update, but there’s a method to the madness, believe me. I now have three blogs. This came about because I need a blogger account to participate in the CRAFTIE Ladies of Suspense blog, and my publisher wants us to link blogs to our social networks. They all say the same thing (I’m not THAT nuts), and I hope it’ll make my books and me a little easier to find on the web. We’ll see.

For the curious, the blogs are this one, as well as on blogger.com, and MySpace. Only the CRAFTIE one will be unique. My first post there will be January 15th.

Finally, I have one housekeeping note, website-wise. This is the last week of my first quarterly contest. The drawing will be done on January 10th, and the prize basket/box will be sent before the end of the month.

The next contest starts January 1st, but I don’t yet know what the “guest book” will be. I’ll announce it on the website as soon as I know.

That’s it for now. On Monday, a new devotional. In the meantime, I hope you have a great weekend.

I’m taking the next two weeks off. Well, from Thomas Nelson anyway. I’m starting to catch up on a few things (I answered or filed 64 emails yesterday, prepared four packs of books for mailing, submitted three workshop proposals, and entered two contests – then I went Christmas shopping.)

I’m also going to use the time to look back, count the many blessings that have come my way this year, then look forward and plan 2009. And write. LOTS of writing.

Blogging resolution: I think part of my problem with blogging frequently is a lack of planning. I’m not big on just rambling on about my everyday life, so when things were calm or I was tired, I slacked off. But posting the devotionals gave me an idea, and not just about promoting the two books they’re from. I LIKE writing devotionals – always have. So here’s the plan for my blog in 2009.

Monday – a new devotional
Wednesday – a craft or promotional piece on my work
Friday – open to reflections, wanderings, inspirations

So if you’re looking for a new post, there you have it. My blog resolution. And it’s aided by one of my newest blessings: I’ve been invited to be a part of the group blog, CRAFTIE Ladies of Suspense. This is run by 15 writers of romantic suspense. More details on this later.

More career blessings . . . Reclaiming Daisy Doe won one contest and finaled in another (winner to be announced in March), and The Face of Deceit received 4 1/2 stars from Romantic Times and was a top pick for September. I finished The Taking of Carly Bradford (May 2009) and Steeple Hill offered me a contract on A Good Day for Murder (due March 1). I have three good stories waiting in the wings, and Revell is still hanging on to the proposal for Daisy. I took part in three group book signings locally, and mass signings at the RWA National and NJRWA Put Your Heart in a Book conferences. I spoke at four writers conferences in four states (NC, AL, FL, NJ), and start 2009 with a speaking engagement at the NOLAStars Written in the Stars conference (March).

Probably my greatest blessings, however, are my friends. I have friends who care for my child, encourage my career, and uplift my life. I couldn’t function without them. As I move into 2009, I want to make sure to hold them close and cherish each of them.

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions because I’m lousy at keeping them. But a resolve to build my career with a steady plan and keep my friends close . . . this I think I can do.

What are the blessings in your life these days?