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Welcome to the website of Mindy Klasky, USA Today bestselling author of more than two dozen romance and fantasy novels!  Look around, read some blog posts, and click on other pages for information about Mindy and her books. Mindy updates her blog every few days — but she posts much more regularly on Facebook and Twitter. She’d love for you to join in the conversation, so don’t be shy!

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A Lost Weekend

Wow, is it Monday already?  I feel like I’ve been living in a warped zone of time, where days mistakenly drop away from my calendar, without explanation or warning.

In other words, I’ve had a cold for the past week.

We spent Presidents Day weekend up at Gifford Pinchot State Park in Pennsylvania, huddling inside a modern cabin as the temperatures dipped into the single digits.  (One morning, we woke up to the textbook definition of a “dusting” of snow — about half an inch that covered all the existing snowbanks and ice slicks with a beautiful, pristine layer of white.)  The time was perfect for catching up on reading, and for being disconnected from the online world.  (Although there’s cell phone connectivity, there’s no wifi in the park.)  Alas, it was too cold and too icy to do much hiking, even on the very easy paths.  More time for reading!

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We drove home last Monday, cleverly meeting the park’s required check-out time of 10:00 a.m. and arriving at our house about two hours before a snowstorm.  Those five inches proved enough to shut down the federal government (Mark’s employer) and the local schools (providers of my Tuesday-morning exercise class), so we enjoyed an additional day of vacation.  At home, of course, we also enjoyed the added attention of the local felines, each of whom staked claim to a lap and protected it with great ferocity.

And then began the loss of days.  I came down with a head cold on Monday — nothing serious, but a wonderful excuse for sleeping.  And sleeping.  And sleeping some more.  I got *some* work done (editing two chapters of JOY OF WITCHCRAFT — gotta get ready for that August release!) but mostly I drank Day-Quil and Ny-Quil, and provided a stable bed for the kitties.

Then another weekend happened.  Another weekend with another five inches or so of snow, this time followed by a nice glaze of freezing rain.

I know we’re not getting weather anything like our poor friends in New England.  But the snow and ice we’ve gotten is more than enough to complicate life here — especially when we had massive melt-off yesterday, followed by a precipitous drop in temps today.  The world outside my door is pretty much a skating rink, and it looks like it’ll stay that way for several days.

I hate ice.

I hate slipping on ice.

I live in terror of falling on ice.  (Not so much the fall.  The resulting broken bones, concussions, etc.)

Yuck.

At least I’ve been amusing myself with one thing:  Of the two cats in the house, the greatest challenge (by far) is Poppy.  She is an extremely strong-willed cat, with firm ideas about where she should be when, and what we humans should be doing to serve her.  She makes writing a challenge, because she refuses to settle on a lap (why take a nice, warm, cat-trap-blanket-covered lap, when there’s a keyboard in use so nearby?)

But when we got Poppy from the shelter, about six years ago, we decided that she’d been owned by a family of consumptives.  She *hates* when people cough.  In fact, she’ll leave food, her favorite scratching toy, her warmest lap, even a keyboard-in-use, if someone coughs.  And when one or both of her humans have colds, her sensitivities are heightened.  She’ll take her leave as soon as one of said human takes a deep breath (presumably, preparatory to coughing.)

I’m trying very hard not to use my knowledge for evil.  But if I just happen to take a deep breath and if that just happens to send the cat upstairs to the guest room, where the sun is streaming in the window, and if I just happen to be able to get more work done…

Well, that benefits everyone, right?  I’m not cruel for testing her responsiveness.  Right?  Right?

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Effortless Perfection and the Impostor Syndrome

Over the weekend, I read an article in my college alumni magazine about campus efforts to battle “effortless perfection.”  For those unfamiliar with this relatively new buzzword, “effortless perfection” is the impression that someone is handling a challenge perfectly, without any visible effort.  It’s the old ‘don’t let them see you sweat’ work ethic, where people (often women, often minorities, often people who are supposed to be grateful for the status they’ve achieved) are encouraged to hide all of the frustration, fear, and hard work that lead to stellar accomplishments. The article discussed numerous campus initiatives to debunk the myth of effortless perfection, including the creation of safe discussion groups where students could admit how hard they find the balance of their academic and social lives to be.

While I’d never heard of effortless perfection, I’ve spent decades getting to know its sibling, “impostor syndrome.”  With impostor syndrome, people who have achieved greatness fear the day when they’ll be unmasked as impostors.  Lawyers, for example, dread being revealed as people who do not automatically know the answer when a client presents a problem.

Every female lawyer I ever worked with admitted to suffering from impostor syndrome, back when I was practicing law.  (To be fair, there were some women — mostly successful senior partners — with whom I never had this conversation.  And as I sit here typing, I can’t remember ever having the impostor chat with a single male colleague.)  When we felt safe, comfortable, able to share, we all agreed that we weren’t quite sure what we were doing in our legal practice, that we were just waiting to be unveiled as impostors who had no right to pull down the salaries we did, who had no right to win a coveted seat among the partnership.

We were terrified someone would see us sweat.  We had utterly bought into the culture of effortless perfection.

Some of those impostors — many of them — went on to highly profitable careers in the law.  They made partner, or they became in-house general counsels, or judges or high-powered lobbyists.

Others of us chose other professions. I became a librarian, where one of the great joys of my professional life was to say, “I don’t know the answer to that, but I have many ideas about where to look.  I’ll get back to you.”  Later, I became a full-time writer, where I get to say, “I don’t know the answer, but I’ll create it, right here, out of the fanciful ideas swirling through my brain.”  Both careers gave me a chance to exorcise the impostor, to truly work with less effort, less perfection expected.

And yet…

I suffer bouts of self-doubt. I wonder whether a particular manuscript will find a home in traditional publishing. I question whether my promotional plan for a novel is the best it can be. I watch fellow authors succeeding at X and Y and Z and I wonder why I even try to compete, because my books will never be as good, never be as recognized as theirs.

It’s the impostor syndrome stirring again.  And you rarely read those concerns here, or on Twitter, or on Facebook, because really, who wants to read the second-guessing of someone who is supposed to entertain.  Writing, especially writing full-time, is a dream come true. It’s a reward for years hard-worked.  It’s a joy and  a pleasure. Why would anyone show the blood, sweat, and tears to get here?

Bottom line:  I curate my contacts with the outside world. I don’t tell you every time I have a headache, or when the blues have set up residence in my head for a day or two, or when I didn’t sleep well, or any number of other things that prove my life is less than perfect.

In part, I don’t tell you those things because they’re boring — we all have headaches, and the blues, and lousy nights’ sleep some of the time.

But I also don’t tell you those things because I want you to think of me as a fun author, as a person you want to spend time with, as a person who truly enjoys her life and the stories that she tells.  Because that’s true — I do enjoy my writing life — despite the headaches, the blues, the lack of sleep.  Why make you think about transitory negative things when the overall scheme of things is positive?

So, am I perpetuating the myth of effortless perfection? Am I subjugating my impostor fears, with the possibility that I make other authors’ impostors raise their own nasty heads?

Or am I following through on the promise I make to my readers, the promise of every fiction author on some level — to entertain?

I don’t have any answers. But I’m asking myself more questions than usual these days…

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And So, 10,000 Calories Later…

As you know, Bob and Bobbette, I write full time. I set my schedule each day, determining how to accomplish the writing that must be done, balancing that with the administrative work generated by a career that consists mostly of self-publishing. I don’t have to report to a day-job; I don’t have an external boss.  (Okay, there’s a pretty forceful orange kitty, but I still control the bag of treats.)

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Given that life of relative leisure, that schedule of general luxury, why would I ever want to go on a writer’s retreat? Isn’t a retreat really a form of busman’s holiday? A way to take my work and stretch it over more days, more nights, more hours?

Well, yes and no.

Last weekend, I went on a writers’ retreat with three other writers. (There was supposed to be a fifth person at our little getaway, but alas, family crises intervened…) I was “hosting” the retreat; however, my home is too small to host so many dedicated writers. Therefore, I was responsible for feeding three other writers, from Friday evening through Sunday lunch. (I also volunteered to do pre-retreat bed-making and post-retreat laundry, but the actual physical-space hostess declined my offer.)

First, the retreat allows me to socialize with other writers. We get to trade stories — about what we’re working on, about which writers we’ve recently met in person or online, about new developments in traditional- and self-publishing, about the crazy, constantly changing business we choose to call our own. We talk when folks arrive at the retreat, and we talk at meals. We talk at impromptu mid-morning and mid-afternoon breaks. We talk when we’re ready to knock off work in the middle of the night.  There’s a lot of talking, even though most of us are relatively introverted people.  (A lot of the talk involves actual meals or improvised snacks, hence the title of this blog post…)

Second, the retreat allows me to write. Yes, I have my own schedule, and I get my own writing done at my own desk in my own office in my own home. But when I’ve committed to traveling 1.5 hours away to write, when I’ve taken a weekend away from family to write, when I’ve carved out days on my calendar, protecting them from other events, to write, then I know I have to actually, you know, write. This past weekend, I generated about 25,000 new words. They aren’t perfect. I left myself some blanks that I’ll need to fill in later. I know I’ll have to add more to some scenes and take some away from others.  But I produced close to one third of a novel in three days, and I’m quite pleased with that output.

Third, the retreat allows me to think. I spent a little more than three hours in the car, driving up to and back from the retreat. Those hours work a bit like time spent in the shower or time swimming (without nearly as much wrinkled skin to contend with!) — my writer-brain is freed to work on plot snarls, on subplot structure, on the rough places where I know the novel still isn’t working. After arriving home, I knew that I needed to revisit two earlier scenes in the book, making clear their connection to the main plot, strengthening the complementary power of the subplot.

I fully expect to pay for my retreat.  (Sure, there’s the economic payout — gasoline and food. I mean the real cost.) That bossy orange kitty didn’t let me out of her sight last night. And I’m typing around her purring little body this morning.

But I’m incredibly lucky. I don’t have to “pay” my spouse for my retreat. He never makes me feel guilty for abandoning him, for walking out on a weekend when he had to wrangle cats alone, when he was stuck by himself for hours and hours and hours. (Yes, I know that he enjoys his own down-time. But I take the choice away from him when I choose to go on retreats.)

And so, 10,000 calories later, I’m rolling up my sleeves. I’m back to work on JOY OF WITCHCRAFT. I’m throwing new obstacles in Jane Madison’s path. Because that’s what writers do. We write. (And eat and talk and eat and plan and eat and outline and eat…)

How about you? How did you spend your weekend?

 

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Lessons from an Off-Season Beach Vacation

We added a day to the already three-day weekend last week and headed down to the Outer Banks, in North Carolina.  A relative owns a gigantic “cottage” there, a beach house that’s intended to sleep around 20.  We’ve found that we love, love, love going down there in the heart of winter, when the vast majority of businesses are boarded up and the beach is deserted as far as the eye can see.  Some lessons learned on this trip:

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  • It really is better to remember the keys to someone else’s house before you’ve driven 1.5 hours.  Through rush-hour traffic. Paying for the use of the toll-based express lanes.  (When you finally remember the keys that are hanging on the hook at home, be grateful that the cottage has a keypad entry system, designed for summer guests who arrive after hours.  Don’t bother driving back for the keys.)
  • The weekend following New Year’s Day really is the weekend when most places shut down for the season. Don’t have your heart set on any favorite restaurant. Don’t hold your breath for any particular store. That’s not why you went to the Outer Banks, anyway.
  • The restaurants (and movie theaters) that are open are going to be crowded.  Very crowded. Plan ahead, if you have time constraints.
  • Heat really does rise.  When you’re staying on the third floor of a huge cottage, with only the heater for that floor turned on, you will shiver when you walk down to the lower floors. Take a jacket when you go to inventory the bed linens in the lower rooms.  Really.
  • Sand is much more firmly packed in cold weather, especially after a day of solid rain, than it is in the summer. Plan on walking a lot farther along the beach. But you probably still won’t get to that pier, the one that seems to move farther away with every step you take.
  • No matter how thoroughly you think you cleaned your shoes, you’re going to track sand into the house. A lot of sand. Really. Even when you thought you’d knocked off every last grain. Just plan on sweeping it up — it’s easier that way.
  • There are few things more enjoyable than curling up on a comfy couch, beneath a warm quilt, sipping from a mug of hot tea, reading a RITA-submission romance novel in the middle of a driving rainstorm.

We had a wonderful break. But it’s oh so hard to get back into the rhythm of working! Of course, with a book release next Tuesday, I don’t have a lot of choice…

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Mission Accomplished (Bed Bug Edition)

About eight years ago, I started a job where I traveled a lot.  I was on the road between ten and fifteen days a month, staying in hotels throughout the U.S.  At the time, there were occasional stories about bed bugs in hotels.  I never took the stated precautions — putting my luggage in the shower until I’d had a chance to strip the beds and check for evidence of bugs, never ever ever using the wooden dressers, studying mattresses, sheets, and pillows for fecal residue of the insects, etc.

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I escaped without any bed bug bites.  In the intervening years, I’ve followed the mainstream press articles about bed bugs, noting how difficult it can be to eradicate them from homes (or hotels.)  I’ve checked out a few potential hotels on the Bed Bug Registry, but I’ve never made plans based on that information.  And I continued to escape without any bed bug bites.

Skip forward to late last year.  I was doing a lot of traveling — conferences, writing retreats, vacation.  And as fate would have it, I came in contact with bed bugs at one of those places — bites on my arms, hands, and feet.  The ones on my hands were severe enough that I couldn’t get my rings off, and my doctor worried that I was cutting off circulation to my fingertips.  She gave me twenty-four hours of treatment with steroids before she ordered the rings cut off.  I responded immediately to the drugs, so I still have my rings.

(I didn’t write about my bites publicly at the time.  The hotel followed up immediately, hiring a remediation service, and they paid for my medical treatment — and a chunk of my hotel bill.  I figured they shouldn’t get a permanent bad mark on the Internet, when they can’t control who brings what into their rooms.)

While the treatment cleared up my bites quickly, I waited for a few days, fearing that I’d brought the critters home with me.  (I’d only know if my husband got bitten; I wouldn’t see new bites, given the drugs in my system.  He took to calling himself the Tethered Goat.)  I laundered all the clothes I’d taken on the trip, using the hottest water.  I froze items that I couldn’t launder, wrapping them in plastic bags and cycling them in and out of my kitchen freezer.

And that left the suitcases.

Some Internet advice says to throw them out, that they can never be salvaged, but I didn’t want to do that because I truly believed I had not brought home any bugs.  (The Tethered Goat remained unbitten.)  Some Internet advice said to leave them in a summer garage where the temperatures reached above 150 degrees.  Um, we don’t have a garage.  And even on our worst summer days, the temperature wouldn’t get that bad.  And some experts said that wasn’t high enough to do in bed bugs.

That left freezing them.  And so, I bagged up my suitcase (and carry-on bag) in two layers of trashbags, taping closed the tops, to make sure no six-legged enemies could climb out.  I left the bags in a corner of my office.  And I waited.

During our first hard freeze, I was out of town, unable to put the bags outside overnight.  Our second hard freeze was New Year’s Eve, and I decided not to put the bagged suitcases out on our porch when there were rowdy parties going on across the courtyard, lest some drunks think it a great idea to start off the New Year with a little theft.

But last night, the temps got down into the upper teens.  Last night, I set out my suitcase and carry-on.  Last night, I let the freezing temps do their worst.

And now, I have luggage again.  Just as well.  Dragging my duffel bag through Costa Rica was a pain in the … palm.

Mission accomplished.

 

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Testing Personal Limits (or, The Great Snorkel Epiphany)

About a dozen years ago, I found myself on vacation in Mexico.  I was traveling with my then-fiance, my parents, and my very active, outdoors-y brother and sister-in-law.  Toward the end of our trip, we went to Cozumel, and I had the option of going snorkeling for the first time.

Now, I love swimming, and I’m fairly confident of myself in water.  At least, that is, in a swimming pool.  I have almost no experience with ocean swimming.  Plus, I wear contact lenses (with which I see 20/20, without which I’m legally blind.)  And I’d never used a snorkel before.  And I was pretty much certain that I wouldn’t be able to do a back-flip into the water; I wasn’t even sure I could climb a ladder on the side of the boat to get back in.

Some of our party knew from the get-go that they weren’t snorkeling.  I debated right up to the minute that I hopped over the side (no back-flip necessary.)  And, reader, I loved snorkeling.  I loved seeing the fish, I loved being in the open water, I loved conquering my fear.  I loved everything about it.

Skip forward twelve years.  Same vacation group, this time with my nephews added in.  (Oh, and the fiance is now my husband.)  We traveled to Costa Rica, and I had the opportunity to go zip-lining.

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Well before the actual trip, I decided I wasn’t going to go.  Zip-lining seemed to require too much athletic ability.  Plus, there was the freak accident (one in many hundreds of thousands if not millions) where a woman cut herself zip-lining and ended up with flesh-eating bacteria.  (Okay, I actually convinced myself I didn’t have to worry about that.)

Nevertheless, as the trip approached, I thought about the Great Snorkel Epiphany.  I began to think that maybe I *would* zip-line.  In fact, I reasoned, I wasn’t likely to be anywhere near a zip-line for the rest of my life, so I *should* zip-line.

The day of the zip-lining, I headed up the mountain with the rest of my party.  Some knew from the get-go that they weren’t zip-lining.  (Sound familiar?)  Not me, though.  I waited in line, and I got suited up in a harness and helmet.  I let very courteous men tug at straps in places no woman likes to be tugged (and I noted the prominent signs stating that the facility complied with Costa Rica’s anti-sexual harassment laws.)  I watched three iterations of the safety training, nodding to indicate that I understood how I needed to spread my legs into a V at the end to slow down, how I needed to “box” with the handlebars to brake.  I sat in the gondola as we traveled through the canopy, feeling my heart beat faster.

At the top, the watchers made themselves comfortable on benches.  I walked over to the practice run, cheering on my still-outdoors-y brother and sister-in-law.  I watched my much more leery nephew take his practice run.

And then I was the only person left on the launch platform.

I decided not to go.  The stairs were frighteningly high, and I needed to climb them to attach my harness to the line.  There were too many things to remember — sit cross-legged for the run, maintaining a perfect “crunch”, keep my arms straight, wait for the tug on the line telling me to brake, spread my legs to a V, box the handlebars.

I told the worker I wasn’t going, and he kindly asked me why not.  I told him I wasn’t strong enough, that I was too heavy.  He promised me it was safe.  I told him there was too much to remember, and he ran me through the instructions.  I told him I was scared, and he said he knew I could do it.  As he reassured me, he helped me up the stairs, and he clipped my harness to the line.

I took the practice run.  I remembered what to do, and I didn’t overshoot the landing pad (Major Fear #1) or slam my shins into the landing pad (Major Fear #2.)  But I found it almost impossible to stand up, to straighten up from the horizontal line position — it was just one thing too many for my brain-on-overdrive to process.

They unclipped me from the line and told me to get in line for the real zip-line (two miles, in eight stages.)  I got in line, just like I was supposed to do.

And then I realized that I didn’t want to go.

I wasn’t afraid that I was going to die.  I didn’t worry that I’d fall from the zip-line into the rain forest below.  I wasn’t even really worried that I’d forget to V, forget to box.

I just didn’t feel like it would be fun — not going that fast, not being that high, not remembering those things, thinking, worrying, all the way down.  I wasn’t going to have a Great Snorkel Epiphany, even if I completed the rest of the course.  I could do it, but I wasn’t going to enjoy it.

At first, I was very disappointed in myself.  I felt ashamed that I hadn’t risen to the occasion, that I hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity.  I was confident I’d made the right choice for myself, but I was sad that I needed to make that choice. (It turns out, my nephew also decided not to go.)

This morning, I had coffee with a friend — a fit, strong friend who spends her vacations hiking in national parks, kayaking on local lakes and rivers, rock climbing in Middle Eastern ruins.  Somewhat shamefacedly, I told her my zip-lining story.  And she said, “I didn’t go either.  Just the steps up to the launch platform were too much for me.”

And that brought about the Great Zip-Line Epiphany.  Different challenges are too much for different people.  Even though my friend is much more fit than I, the ten feet or so of the launch steps defeated her.  Other people had no trouble with the entire zip-line path, but they might have been defeated by putting their face in Caribbean water.

I put too much weight on the zip-lining (and I don’t mean physical weight!) It became a referendum, and it didn’t need to be. I don’t see a future where I’ll zip-line, and that’s all right.  But I might go snorkeling again…

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2014 in Review

There’s nothing like coming back from vacation to make a person all think-y and reflective and introspective.  Or, um, maybe it’s the calendar change-over doing all that…

I started off 2014 with major plans for my career.  I planned on publishing nine books (the Diamond Brides Series) during the year — I had 3.5 of them written on January 1, so I still had 5.5 to go.  I also thought I’d throw together a few omnibus editions, just to keep things fun.  Of course, in the world of indie-publishing it’s not enough to write the books — I also needed to take care of covers, formatting, uploading the books at various vendors, and promoting the work.

And, Reader, I’m thrilled to say:  “I did it.”

What’s more, I enjoyed it.  I found out that I loved writing my short, hot contemporary romance novels.  I truly enjoyed creating the heroes’ points of view, and I reveled in the challenge of making each story unique (not just the bedroom scenes, but the characters’ motivations, the plot conflicts, etc.)  I contracted out the work on cover design, but I did all the rest of the production work, designing and implementing systems along the way that will help with all my future writing.

I underestimated the amount of work, especially with preparing the omnibus editions for publication.  They present some special challenges in production (page numbering, for example, and larger file manipulation), and they require the same level of publicity and promotion that individual books take.  I correctly estimated the physical toll of writing more than half a million published words — my back is fussing with me, and my hips, too, and I accumulated about ten pounds I didn’t have when I started the year.

I also wasn’t prepared for the effect that Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited program would have on my success.  I refused to participate in KU because it requires exclusivity; I want to sell my books in stores other than Amazon.  As a result, I saw a huge cut to my sales, beginning in July when the “all you can read” program was launched.  From speaking with other authors, I’ve concluded that KU has most deeply affected romance writers, and its impact seems even greater upon relatively short works with relatively low price points.  By tracking the trajectory of my sales prior to the launch of KU, I estimate that I lost between 50 and 75% of the sales I would otherwise have seen.

Nevertheless, 2014 was a successful year artistically, emotionally, and financially.  I increased my income approximately 60% over the preceding year (when my target was to increase my income by approximately 40%.)  I made the USA Today Bestseller list, a title that I’ll be able to claim for the rest of my publishing career.  I worked with some incredible authors on joint projects (most notably the Playing for Passion boxed set.)  I met new readers who continue to brighten my day with comments and posts about my work.

On a personal note, it’s been a good year, with lots of joy at home, good times with friends, fantastic plays and museum exhibits and books and films to keep me entertained, and many excellent conversations along the way.  There’ve been some sad notes — cancer stalked too many of my friends, greedily taking its last toll just this morning.  Each of those deaths has left me more resolved to do more, to see more, to accomplish more in the time I have.

So 2015 should be an exciting ride.  I have five books scheduled for release — a free sampler containing the first chapters of many of my other works (The Mindy Klasky Sampler, in stores January 27), a non-fiction book on writing (The Rational Writer, in stores May 26), a new Jane Madison novel (Joy of Witchcraft, in stores August 4), and two more works waiting for titles and specific release dates.  I look forward to more time with friends, both in person and online.  And I can’t wait to see what stories evolve, the ones I’m not even expecting.  Yet.

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Return From Paradise (Costa Rica Edition)

::waving madly::  I’m back!  (Yeah, yeah, with all the holiday craziness, I know you were barely aware I was gone!)

About three years ago, my parents decided that they wanted to take the family on a big extravagant trip to mark their fiftieth anniversary.  My father, who missed a career as a stellar travel agent, did a lot of investigating and a ton of planning and we all intended to meet up in Costa Rica.  Alas, events intervened, and the trip was modified (to an amazing vacation in San Diego, but that’s another story.)

This year, my parents each celebrated major birthdays, and the Costa Rica plans went back on thet able.  My father did a lot of new investigating and began a ton of new planning (with plenty of input from my mother, of course, and a few chimes from my brother, me, and our spouses.)  Costa Rica was back on the table.

And so I’ve just returned from ten days of eco-tourism in perhaps the most friendly country I’ve ever visited.  We flew in and out of the capital, San Jose, but we spent most of our time in nature preserves, all the while staying in luxury resorts.  Our first stop was Si Como No, a hotel carved out of the rain forest near the Manuel Antonio National Park.  The view of the Pacific Ocean from our bed:

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In the park, we saw tons of wildlife — capuchin monkeys and sloths, along with iguanas, sloths, bats, sloths, crab-eating raccoons, sloths, raccoon-targeted crabs, sloths, giant grasshoppers, etc., etc., etc. and a whole host of man-high flora that I’m used to seeing only in tiny four-inch containers at my local nursery, neatly labeled “Tropical: Keep indoors”.

Capuchin  Sloth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We took a flat-bottom-boat tour of the mangrove swamps and learned all about the ecosystem there  (and yes, came face to face with more capuchins, including an alpha male that climbed on the roof of the boat to stake his claim to our domain.

Mangrove

We transferred to a resort at the Arenal Volcano, where we suffered through yet another terrible view from a hotel room that was nearly as large as our townhouse.  This place had planted gardens, with walkways and pagodas and swimming pools and spas.  From there, we attempted zip-lining (I bailed after a practice run, but some people in our party did the whole 2-mile course!), and we took a “safari float”, finding howler monkeys, more new-to-us birds, and a GIANT orange iguana that looked like he’d just time-traveled from the Jurassic.

Arenal

We returned to San Jose for Christmas Day and enjoyed a fancy-shmancy dinner at our hotel.  On our last full day in Costa Rica, we went to a coffee plantation and learned all about harvest and production of coffee.  Back at our hotel, we had curbside seats to the Horse Parade (five hours of drinking in the almost-new year :-) ), and we wandered through the Central Market and other downtown streets.

I feel as if I’ve been away for months — a sensation that should last until tomorrow, when I roll up my sleeves and tumble right back into writing.

So?  How about you?  What did I miss in the past ten days?

(All pictures courtesy of my husband, as I haven’t downloaded my photos yet!)

 

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Pre-Christmas Book Notes

Just a couple of quick notes in the pre-Christmas flurry of deadlines and craziness!

1.  Before there was Diamond Brides, before there was Fright Court, I wrote a series about a genie who grants wishes to women who work in the professional theater.  The books are light, and each one is completely self-contained; you don’t need to read them as a series.  Why am I telling you this now?  Because the first one, ACT ONE, WISH ONE (previously released as HOW NOT TO MAKE A WISH), is now available ***free*** from most sellers of ebooks.  Go on.  Take a chance.  Download your free copy and read it today!

2.  Also available today — the last of the Diamond Brides books, TRIPLE PLAY III.  Technically, this is the last *three* of the Diamond Brides books, available in an omnibus edition.  You can read FROM LEFT FIELD, CENTER STAGE, and ALWAYS RIGHT, all for the low, low price of $7.99!  Available at most sellers of ebooks!  (There’s also a print edition; I’ll add those sales links shortly…)

I hope that the holiday season is keeping you happy, and just the right amount of busy!

Happy reading!

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