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I know Russell Crowe is supposed to be a voracious reader but I’m not sure if the pic to the left is intended to promote reading or be a cautionary warning against smoking in bed.

I will say that it did get me thinking about where I like to read. Unlike some of you, I’m not coordinated enough to read in the bathtub. If I tried, I’m afraid the only result would be a very wrinkled me and a swollen, sodden mass of wood pulp that used to be a book.

In the summer I love to curl up on this divine divan in our sun room. I’ve coveted a divan ever since I was a little girl and I saw an illustration in LITTLE WOMEN of Jo March reclining on her attic divan on a rainy day, eating a juicy red apple and reading a novel. (Unfortunately I’m more likely to be stuffing my piehole with a bag of dark chocolate M&M’s.) It’s so relaxing to be reading with a gentle breeze drifting through the windows or the rain pattering down on the metal roof. Of course the real challenge is resisting the temptation to lay the book aside and snuggle down for an afternoon nap!

In the winter I nest in this oversized chair in the corner of our living room away from the TV. It was the wall-to-wall bookshelves that sold me on this house. There’s something terribly comforting about glancing up and seeing all of those other books glowing softly in the light--some already well-read and much-loved, others just waiting to be discovered. And the best thing about this chair-and-a-half is that there’s exactly enough room for me and at least half a cat! (Or one cat and half of me.)

When I was a child, my dad used to cook a big breakfast for us every Saturday morning. And my official job while he cooked was...to stay in bed and read! I still remember how cozy it felt to be tucked into bed reading HALF-MAGIC or THE PRINCESS BRIDE while the sound of my daddy’s whistling and the succulent aroma of bacon wafted up the stairs.

There are some books you always remember because of WHERE you read them. (Hospital waiting room, anyone?) I first read THE HOBBIT on a sunny Saturday afternoon while sitting cross-legged at the very top of a fire tower at Pennyrile State Park with the forest stretched out below me as far as the eye could see. (I could almost see the Eagles come swooping over the horizon to save the battle and the day!) I read ROOTS when I was 13 during a long car trip to Disney World. And I finished Stephen King and Peter Straub’s THE TALISMAN on the way home from a vacation in Massachusetts with Phil Collins singing, “Take Me Home” as the perfect accompaniment to the final moments of both the trip and the book.

So where do YOU like to read? Is there a special chair or couch that makes it easier for your imagination to make the leap into another world? Pop on over to my Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/TeresaMedeirosFanPage to share your favorite spot!

First of all, let me begin by saying that I have read some absolutely wonderful romance novels with heroes named Harry (Connie Brockway’s AS YOU DESIRE anyone?), Bill (Charlaine Harris’s ”Sookie Stackhouse“ series), and Jack (Lisa Kleypas’s hero of SUDDENLY YOU certainly gives me a craving for fresh raspberries!) But I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for those nobleman blessed with such swoonworthy monikers as Gabriel, Sebastian and Tristan (with an occasional Damien thrown in for devilish effect). 

Character names have always been very important to me because I usually come up with my hero and heroine’s names before I know anything else about their stories.  I was fascinated to learn after the fact that the name “Gareth” (SHADOWS AND LACE) and the name “Gerard” (THIEF OF HEARTS) both mean “staff”.  Hmmm...wonder if there was something Freudian going on in my subconscious when I wrote those books?

I also have a fondness for outlaws so it’s my personal opinion that all western heroes should be named “Billy” or “Jesse”.  When I wrote Billy Darling in NOBODY’S DARLING, his name told me everything I needed to know about his character.  And lest someone should suggest that my names aren’t realistic enough, I’ll have you know that right after I finished my most recent novels AFTER MIDNIGHT and THE VAMPIRE WHO LOVED ME featuring brothers Adrian and Julian Kane, I received a note from my German translator telling me that her sons were named Adrian and Julian!  She wanted me to give her third son his “own book” but alas, his name is “Fabian.” A gorgeous name but a shade too close to “Fabio” for my comfort. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to “Simon.” He’s a very naughty hero and he needs my guidance

So what about YOU?  Does the hero’s name affect your perception of him?  Do you prefer the more realistic names or the sweeping romance archetypes?  And what is your favorite hero name of all-time?

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One of the greatest things about being a writer is that you get to write at home.  In your home office.  You know all those jokes explaining to your boss why you fell asleep at your desk?  ("It was a highly specific Yoga exercise to relieve stress!").  Well, writers can just gracefully fall into their own beds when it’s naptime.  Which is a good thing because if you happen to be Eloisa, there isn’t enough room on that desk to take a nap…

I’m slightly horrified by exposure of my nest, but I’m figuring it might be inspirational for those of you whose desks approach mine.  And did you know that there’s a new book out there proclaiming that over-organization leads to lack of good ideas and lost creativity?  Think of me as the poster child for that book!  So here’s my desk: In case you’re wondering, I am reading all those books.  Today.  The daffodils are from my back garden.  The quilt on the wall has all the covers of my books and was a Christmas present from my amazing assistant, Kim.

I promise if you’ll come back next month, I’ll have gleaming hardwood floors to show off in my office!  When we found this house, I was deliberately looking for a newer house that was laid out like an older one so I could commandeer the formal living room AND dining room to be the “Teresa Medeiros complex.”

I was shooting for French provincial here with my white, slightly distressed, hand painted furniture, but with all of my BEWITCHED and FAIRY TALE BARBIES, it ended up looking more like the bedroom of a demented 16-year-old with a Barbie (and Russell Crowe) fetish.

And where else would I keep my extra Teresa Medeiros books and foreign editions besides my very own Russell Crowe/MASTER AND COMMANDER bookshelf?  My devoted husband snagged this from Wal-Mart right before they were going to put it in the box crusher.  Now that’s a real-life hero!

What romance writer’s office would be complete without its very own knight in shining armor? (Or tin.)

This is an example of one of the gorgeous Jamie Murray BEAUTY AND THE BEAST prints I have scattered throughout the office.

And here I am with my very favorite desk toy (as opposed to Xtina’s sex toys), a talking replica of Captain Jack Sparrow who mumbles sweet nothings in my ear while I’m working!  ("Wot’s that yer saying?  Ye want me to do wot?!!!")

Ya’ll come back now, ya here! 

My office unapologetically reeks of romance, complete with walls a color the paint chip called “Passion” and a proliferation of flowers. For all my rough language and sarcasm, I am a girly-girl at heart.  (And also a slob, something I have masterfully disguised with these pics, not through the miracle of Photoshop, but housework. On account of it’s a miracle if housework gets done around here.) The bookcase nearest my desk houses copies of all the books I’ve written--thumbed copies on top, pristine and foreign copies inside (along with lots of cool, writerly knickknacks). That Victoria’s Secret bag beside it? That’s where I file my tax receipts.  (I live to make accountants’ blood run cold.) Beneath it is the infamous stack of magazines I go through for story and cover art ideas.

My desk is the heart of everything, and I’ve tried to fill it with anything that might inspire me or make me feel good--treasured keepsakes, gifts from friends and readers, and Dean Martin.  (Who was a gift to me from the wonderful women of Mid-Michigan RWA.  When I need a lift, I push Dean’s button, and he sings “That’s Amore” or “Everybody Loves Somebody.” Dino rocks.)

The other bookcase is my TBR bookcase.  Well, one of them, anyway.  On top of it is a collection of framed photographs whose purpose is to remind me of all the things I was before I became a writer.  (Sometimes I forget there’s more to life than deadline.) On the walls you can’t see here, I’ve hung awards and lots and lots of hearts in various media.  I also have a futon in case writer friends need a place to crash (or if I don’t feel like filing stuff), but it’s mostly used by the cats. 

Now then.  Just imagine all these pictures filled with piles of crap, and you’ll have a good idea of my true working environment. It won’t stay this way for long. Tidiness makes me nervous.

CONNIE BROCKWAY DISCOVERS THE REASON WOMEN PAST 30 DON’T WATER-SKI
I am an athletic woman. I play a mean game of tennis, swim like a fish, and lift weights on a regular basis—heavy weights. So last weekend when we were visiting friends’ at their lake cabin and their son said, “Who wants to go water skiing?” I chirped, “Hey! That sounds like fun! I’m in!” It didn’t matter that I hadn’t actually been on skis in oh, say,... oh, say… wow. Has it been that long? No matter. It’s like riding a bike.

I ignored the startled and/or amused glances of my peers. Just because they have let themselves go to hell doesn’t mean the rest of us have. And not being known for verbal restraint, I think I said something like, “Hey, just because you have let yourselves go to hell doesn’t mean that I have.”

A word here: My “friends” eat up hubris like Takeru Kobayashi gobbles hotdogs.

Forthwith, I found myself with my feet encased in the rubber footholds of some antique water skis, bobbing up and down in a lake, buoyed by a child’s life vest so small it had to be bungee-corded together in the front. How did I know it was a child’s life vest? Were you listening? IT HAD TO BE BUNGEE-CORDED TOGETHER IN THE FRONT TO MAKE IT FIT! Geesh. Somehow, twenty-five people had managed to cram together on the power boat that was going to take me for a spin around the lake. Okay, maybe there weren’t twenty-five but that boat was packed with spectators anddon’t even ask what the horsepower of that baby was because that sort of question is plain old rude.(It was big.) So, there I am.

Confident, even a little cocky, I grasp the tow bar, give a thumbs up and shout, “Let ‘er rip!” With a roar of power the boat leaps forward, the tow line plays out like a striking snake and, knees gently bent, arms straight ahead, leaning back at just the right angle, I surge slowly upright, like Venus arising from Zeus foaming brow. Or the Cracken from the watery depths. It depends on one’s perspective.

Anyway, I am up and it feels fine. Good, even. And I feel powerful, strong, ready for some S-P-E-E-D. I give the driver the sign. At once, the motor boat claws it’s way over the surface of the lake like a mad cat on a shag carpet and I’m in the wake, riding the silky smooth vee behind the boat and I am feeling hot. My legs are steady, my arms fine, all that core training has obviously worked because I am solid on that ride.

It is time to add a little sass to this act.

I decide to give the nay-saying, stodgy, snickering oldsters who’ve come along for the ride a little show. I bend my legs, and my ski’s edge slice through the water, shooting me toward the wake. I fly over it, transposed against the sky in a moment of aerial artistry, my arms over my head to take up the slack and bang! I hit the water. I don’t even miss a beat. My pals in the boat applaud. They laugh with pleasure! A few of the women actually shake their heads with the wonder of it!

I pull in and carve another route back toward the wake and jump it and then the other side, and then back again. I slalom, I carve, I slice, I curve, I arc. And I am getting a little tired by now. Hell, women half my age (which would make them mere children) would be tired by now. One more wake flight and then I’ll signal for the driver to return me to the cabin. Over I go and this time the land isn’t quite so flawless. I land hard and wobble on my skis yet still catch myself and that’s when it happened.

In the midst of almost losing my balance, I looked down. I saw my thighs.

Now the things my thighs were doing behind that boat as I skimmed over the corrugated chop of the lake surface is best left to the imagination. Cellulite at rest is as about appealing as a body suit made out of cottage cheese. Cellulite in motion is ghastly. But cellulite that is no longer bound by strong young collagen to the dimpled layer of the dermis is, in a word, horrifying.

I looked down and saw the flesh of my legs shimmying like a sixties go-go dancer, oscillating like a can of paint in a Sherwin Williams color-mixer, rippling like the flag in Bush campaign commercial, shaking like sinner at the gates of hell, quivering like… well, you get my point. Not pretty.

I let go of the tow bar and all too slowly glide off to the side and sink beneath the concealing water. I couldn’t possibly have sank slow enough.

Some things you give up because they are no longer worth the effort to do them, like folding tee shirts or theme-sex. Some things you give up because they are simply too physically demanding, like folding tee-shirts or theme-sex. But some things you give up for purely aesthetic reasons.

How about you? Have you ever flashed your past to your great regret? Boasted of a skill you somehow misplaced? Squeezed into a dress you just knew made you look like a triple –threat fox only to see photos later that challenged that belief? Tell me. Share my humiliation. It’s cathartic.

And remember, I’ll be picking the names of two winners to receive autographed copies of the hardcover, large-eye edition of HOT DISH from our membership list this evening!

1) If you’re suspected of murdering your first wife, by all means, don’t spoil the suspense by telling your new bride that you’re innocent. Why deprive her of the chance to wander around your town house/manor house/castle in her semi-transparent nightgown searching for clues? Women love a man of mystery!

2) If you have a lookalike twin/cousin/illegitimate brother, make sure and impersonate him at some point (preferably at a masquerade ball) so you can steal a kiss from your ladylove. Just don’t pout and brood if she decides she prefers his kisses to yours.

3) If you fall off your horse, hit your head and develop amnesia, be very suspect of a pretty girl who tries to convince you that you’re her long lost fiance or husband.

4) If you’re ever afflicted with temporary blindness due to your own selfless, heroic actions in battle, insist that your butler hire the most sharp-tongued shrew he can find to be your new nurse. Her incessant nagging will surely inspire your rapid return to good health.

5) Never try to tame that stubborn forelock that tumbles over your brow. Women love any excuse to tenderly brush it back with their yearning fingertips.

6) If you’re rendered unconscious for any reason, continue to feign unconsciousness until your ladylove is compelled to give you a bath. (This could take days depending on how fastidious she is). But do plan on waking up the moment she decides to steal a naughty peek beneath the covers.

7) Always make the time to practice your brooding, sardonic look in front of the mirror. Ladies love that.

8) Cultivate a friendship with a witty, smart-mouthed brother/cousin/friend/valet who can serve as both your confidante and your conscience when the light of your life isn’t around.

9) If you find yourself strangely attracted to a slender lad with a particularly pretty face and long lashes, you might want to double check and make sure it’s not really some buxom lass masquerading as a cabin boy/squire. (If not, perhaps you’ve been spending too much time at your gentleman’s club.)

10) And most importantly, you may pine for a woman for months (or even years!) but you must never confess your love for her until you’re standing on a windswept cliff with the villain thundering toward you and both of your lives are in dire peril.

So what relationship advice would you like to give your favorite romance hero?

TODAY’S SPECIAL SQUAWK ANNIVERSARY PRIZE WILL BE A SET OF PERSONALIZED AUTOGRAPHED HARDCOVERS OF AFTER MIDNIGHT AND THE VAMPIRE WHO LOVED ME BY TERESA!  WINNERS WILL BE CHOSEN FROM THE SQUAWK RADIO MEMBER LIST SO MAKE SURE AND JOIN UP IF YOU HAVEN’T. CHECK BACK AFTER 7 PM TONIGHT TO FIND OUT WHO THE LUCKY WINNER IS! 

AND TUNE IN LATER THIS AFTERNOON FOR ANOTHER ONE OF TERESA’S CLASSIC BLOGS!
Teresa’s Website