SquawkRadio

Everyone knows what American women want—thinner thighs, darker chocolate, and a dashing Englishman who looks more like Hugh Grant or Colin Firth than Prince Charles or Dame Edna. George Clooney might charm us with his bedroom eyes and easygoing manner, but deep in our hearts we yearn for a quintessential English gent who will declare both his scorn and his love for us in clipped, upper crust tones. He will mock, infuriate, and adore us—preferably from afar so we won’t be able to tell when his teeth start going bad as English teeth invariably do. (In a recent interview, Hugh Grant confessed that his were already starting to go.) To achieve the true pinnacle of desirability, this paragon of manhood must be always in our hearts, yet forever out of our reach. 

It’s precisely these qualities that make Jane Austen’s Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy in Pride and Prejudice the great-great-grandpappy of all the dark and brooding anti-heroes who would come after him. Whether embodied by Sir Laurence Olivier in 1940 or Colin Firth in the 1995 BBC production or Matthew McFadyen or Colin Firth again as attorney Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones’ Diary, Mr. Darcy is one of the most compelling romantic characters to ever grace the page, stage or the screen. 

Darcy is first introduced to us as the Simon Cowell of the Meryton assembly. There’s not even a sympathetic Paula Abdul to soften the blow or a 1-800 number to call in a protest when he passes ruthless judgment on Elizabeth Bennet, dismissing her as “tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” His collar is as stiff as his demeanor and his aristocratic nose is fixed firmly in the air, no doubt breathing deeply of the rarified stratosphere that can only be coveted by lesser mortals like Miss Bennet and her sisters. 

He is proud, arrogant, insufferable...and utterly irresistible. It’s no accident of Ms. Austen’s clever prose that we fall in love with him long before Elizabeth does. After all, who could resist a man who leaves this first impression?—"He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.” He might drive a coach-and-four instead of straddling a Harley, but that doesn’t make him any less of a bad boy. His behavior is impeccable, but his temperament is deliciously deplorable. 

Darcy becomes even more intriguing when compared to his devoted friend, Mr. Bingley—"Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence.” How is it that the amiable Bingley makes us yawn into our tea while Mr. Darcy, the most unlikely of heroes, still possesses the power to make us swoon nearly two hundred years after Jane Austen first created him? Are all women closet masochists or do we just love a rousing (or would that be arousing?) challenge?

From the time I was a very small child, I’ve been given to passionate crushes on the opposite sex. When I was six years old, I fell hard for Kurt Russell and his beguiling dimples in Disney’s The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes. For five pivotal years of puberty, Donny Osmond’s blinding smile reigned supreme on the walls of my bedroom and in my heart. Darling Donny was my first muse, prompting me to pen Chapter One of a rollicking pirate novel in which Sir Donald Osmond abducted my intrepid heroine in a scene eerily similar to the kidnapping of the governor’s daughter in Pirates of the Caribbean. To increase my chances of becoming The Donald’s wife and bearing his many toothy children, I checked the Book of Mormon out of the local library and doubled my visits to the local orthodontist. I’m embarrassed to report that my ability to yearn wistfully for a total stranger resurfaced when I developed a medical condition commonly known in internet circles as RCO (Russell Crowe Obsession) and downloaded over 350 photos of the enigmatic actor in less than a month.

You might be asking yourself what Kurt’s dimples, Donny’s teeth, and Russell’s...well...everything...have in common with the formidable Mr. Darcy. Mr. Crowe certainly does have a reputation for blunt speaking and I have no doubt he’d be perfectly at home in a Regency drawing room delivering bon mots and cut directs with equal ruthlessness. (After all, this is a man bold enough to publicly criticize DeNiro for selling out!) However, it’s not his prickly Australian nature that makes him a worthy successor to Darcy’s mantle, but his chameleon-like ability to transform himself into every woman’s fantasy with each role he plays. Whether slaughtering Barbarian hordes in Gladiator, rescuing Meg Ryan’s hapless husband in Proof of Life, or bellowing out orders in Master and Commander, he successfully evokes empathy while still playing hard to get with our yearning hearts. 

We’ve always loved our stoic, enigmatic heroes. That’s why so many women have chosen Spock over Captain Kirk through the years.  Orlando Bloom’s recent portrayal of Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy provoked a similar reaction from a new generation of teenage girls. He probably had three lines in the entire trilogy (and most of those were spoken in Elvish), yet the female sighs every time he appeared on screen were audible throughout the theater. His eyes spoke volumes although his mouth rarely moved. 

In a similar fashion, it’s not what we know about Darcy that intrigues us from his very first appearance on the page, but what we don’t know. Jane Austen could have made us privy to every one of Darcy’s thoughts and motivations long before they are revealed to Elizabeth. But she wisely realized that a hero stripped of his inscrutable nature is also a hero stripped of appeal. 

From a very young age, we women need to have an object to personify our fantasies. Whether it’s that first rapturous taste of puppy love or a high school crush, the more unattainable and inaccessible that object, the more we are able to endow him with all of the qualities we think we admire. And by the time we’re done, he’s usually very well-endowed indeed. 

If we’re consistently held at arm’s length from the object of our desire, we can continue to view him through the tender glow of our rose-colored glasses. Our illusions will never be shattered by learning that he belches like Homer Simpson after downing a beer or that he always misses the hamper and leaves his dirty underwear lying on the bedroom floor. He can remain cloaked in a veil of mystery and by doing so, his perfection will never be impeached. He will always be an empty suit of clothes perfectly tailored to meet our needs—our soul mate without a soul.

In Mr. Darcy’s case, that suit of clothes is a pair of buff-colored trousers and an impeccably tailored Regency tail coat. From his first appearance in Meryton, we long to believe that his icy demeanor hides a warm and passionate heart, but Ms. Austen insists upon dashing our hopes at every turn and plot twist. Elizabeth herself pronounces him “very disagreeable” when discussing his character with the charming and amoral Mr. Wickham in Chapter 16 and Darcy condemns himself in her eyes as she recalls, “I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper.”

If the eyes are truly the mirrors of the soul, even Darcy’s gaze is suspect. After her marriage to that obsequious toad, Reverend Collins, Elizabeth’s dear friend Charlotte notes that Mr. Darcy “certainly looked at her friend (Elizabeth) a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, but steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind.” Mr. Darcy’s empty suit of clothes is now complimented by an empty gaze. But it’s precisely the vacancy of that gaze that allows us to color it with all of the ardor we imagine he is feeling for Elizabeth beneath his perfectly composed exterior. 

Ms. Austen and Mr. Darcy continue to tease us until Chapter 35 when Darcy’s impassioned letter to Elizabeth reveals his true motivations and a hint of his true character. Only then can we heave a collective sigh of relief as we learn that all of our hopes for him were not in vain.

The true beauty of Ms. Austen’s characterization is that Darcy is slowly revealed to be everything we dreamed he could be. His haughty expression is simply the mask he wears to shield his vulnerable heart. His intentions toward Elizabeth and her family may be somewhat misguided, but it is not malevolence that informs them, but loyalty to his dear friend Mr. Bingley. Even Elizabeth can’t dismiss the fine accounting of his character given by the housekeeper at Pemberly, when he is revealed to be “thoughtful, kind, good-natured, a loving brother, and generous to those less fortunate than he.” As she gapes at the housekeeper in disbelief, you can almost hear country singer Tim McGraw start to growl, “I may be a bad boy, but baby I’m a real good man.”

This fantasy is even more beguiling because in real life if we meet a guy at a party who seems like a jerk, he usually turns out to be...well...a jerk. Instead of apologizing for misjudging him as Elizabeth is eventually forced to do, we end up giving him a fake phone number or taking out a restraining order. By the time Elizabeth and Darcy have confessed their love for one another and earned their happy ending, we are confident that he is fully equipped to satisfy her every romantic fantasy just as he has satisfied ours. 

Our teen idols will grow up. Our high school crushes will marry the cheerleaders we hated and show up at our twentieth reunions with beer guts and balding heads. Our favorite actors will dump their young, pretty wives for younger, prettier wives and waste years spinning in the revolving door of rehab.  But with Mr. Darcy so perfectly preserved on the page, we’ll never have to worry that his dimples will turn into wrinkles, that he’ll become a game show host instead of a pirate, or that his picture will be plastered all over the tabloids after he bites his own bodyguard in a drunken brawl. (Australians do that, you know.)

Thinner thighs and darker chocolate may not always be within our grasp, but thanks to Jane Austen, a brooding Englishman with an inscrutable gaze and good teeth will always remain just at our fingertips. 

(Originally published in FLIRTING WITH PRIDE AND PREJUDICE: FRESH PERSPECTIVES ON THE ORIGINAL CHICK-LIT MASTERPIECE, Edited by Jennifer Crusie and still available from Ben Bella Books http://www.benbellabooks.com/smartpop.php)

You can visit Teresa’s website at http://www.teresamedeiros.com or Follow her on TWITTER at http://www.twitter.com/teresamedeiros

When you fill out the application to become a Romance Writer, it goes something like this:

1. Are you prepared to live in a world populated by defiant, intelligent, beautiful virgins who know how to shoot like snipers, bold, muscular, driven men with dark souls, and a constant parade of exotic locales? A world that doesn’t exist?

2. Can you give a glib excuse for buying more research books than any one person can ever read in a single lifetime?

3. Are you prepared to have your family think you’re crazy when they catch you talking to yourself … again?

4. What is your favorite romantic adventure movie? And right there on the application, it says, ROMANCING THE STONE.

That’s right. The answer to that one is filled in. Why, you ask? Because Romancing the Stone is the quintessential romantic adventure movie, with not only a legendary jewel, a scarred villain, great sex, and a cynical anti-hero, but a heroine who’s a romance writer. Does it get any better than that?

I love romantic adventure movies; they’re fun, they’re fast, they sparkle with dialogue and sexual tension — and they’re surprisingly hard to find. Hollywood has always thought that romance and adventure are oxymorons, mostly because they believe that women are ill-suited to adventure. If they do include a woman, it’s the woman’s job to run during the chase scene, twist her ankle, fall down, make the hero rescue her, and thus put him into the hands of the villains. The reason there aren’t more romantic adventures showcasing vibrant, intelligent, coordinated women is because men run the studios. There’s a word to describe these men. The word sounds like oxymoron. But it isn’t.

In no particular order, here are my favorite romantic adventure movies:

Indian Jones And The Lost Ark: two words — young Harrison Ford. Yeah, that’s more than two words. Picky, picky.

The Bourne Identity: I suppose it’s not strictly a romance, but few writers or directors use a female character so well. Marie is drawn into the adventure because she’s desperate for money and Bourne will give it to her — if she helps him. She doesn’t realize what she’s getting into, and once she does, she yells, is scared, wants to run away, but she doesn’t run, she doesn’t fall down and twist her ankle, she comes up with better plans than Bourne does, and in the end, she gets Matt Damon. Does it get any better than that? Of course, the second movie totally screws up the romance, but as a stand-alone movie, The Bourne Identity works big-time.

Last Of The Mohicans: Talk about smoky, glorious sexual tension between Cora and Hawkeye, teamed with some of the best adventure and most romantic lines ever delivered in a movie. Cora: “What are you looking at, sir?” Hawkeye: “I’m looking at you, miss.” And Hawkeye to Cora when she’s about to be captured by the Indians: “You be strong, you survive… You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.” Added bonus — the sound track is fabulous.

Star Wars (Episodes IV, V, VI): two words — really young Harrison Ford. Yeah, that’s more than two words, too. I put these in my favorites list because in The Empire Strikes Back, as Han Solo is about to go into the carbon freeze and possibly die, or for sure get really stiff, he utters one of the best lines ever in romantic adventure. Princess Leia: “I love you.” Han: (completely serious) “I know.” Then in Return of the Jedi, when the rebels attack the bunker and it looks like Han’s about to be captured, Leia shows him her hidden blaster, the one that will save his life. He smiles and says, “I love you,” and she smiles back in perfect accord and says, “I know.” That’s when you know they’re going to have a great relationship forever.

Charade, To Catch A Thief, Indiscreet: And more. Whether he’s a hero or a thief, Cary Grant exudes charm, and because he was so popular, the scripts and the filming are the best.

Casablanca: I know, it doesn’t end like a traditional romance, but the love story makes my heart ache, and I had to include it. According to the DVD extras, the last scene wasn’t even written while they were filming, and Ingrid Bergman didn’t know which man she was going to end up with until she filmed that final scene.

“> Oh, and of course, Romancing the Stone.

I drew my inspiration for STORM OF SHADOWS from my favorite romantic adventure movies. The story starts in New York City where brilliant yet prim and proper librarian Rosamund Hall meets mysterious Aaron Eagle. He wants her to find a prophecy vital to him, and to the Chosen Ones. She tells him she doesn’t trust in legends or the paranormal, but he sweeps her away to Casablanca, Paris, and the French Alps, and Rosamund is forced to confront the truth about the Chosen…and the dangerous man who plunges her into a world of dark secrets.

STORM OF SHADOWS never stops to let you draw breath. That’s why I love romantic adventures. They leave you breathless.

What are your favorites?

Warmly,
Christina Dodd
http://www.christinadodd.com
Are you one of the Chosen?

My daughter rescued her when she was six weeks old. She had been used as a bait dog, because screaming terrified puppies rouse savagery in fighting dogs. She had scars on her little head and sores on her feet from standing in her own urine. My daughter took her home, cleaned her up and fell in love.

Sophie was a wonderful puppy. She was so eager to please, so loving and trusting of Rachel. She was housebroken and kennel trained in a matter of weeks. She didn’t stay in the kennel much, however, she thought she was a lapdog and her big, wedge faced head was a scarf that she’d drape over your shoulder and sigh with contentment. Soon, she migrated to the foot of the bed.

At first, it seemed like Sophie Mae, the most deserving of animals, would live out a happily ever after, that love would conquer all, and that the bad guys wouldn’t win. She would go to the dog park and though showing some nervousness, she would soon be playing, albeit cautiously, with the strange dogs there. She loved Rachel’s other dog and my own Springer Spaniel pup. Mostly she avoided my old terrier, who by virtue of being an old dog, hates any young dog.

But then when she turned one year old, things started to change with Sophie Mae. She became less social with other dogs, she’d nip at those who came bounding up to play with her at dog parks. She showed signs of intense anxiety whenever a new dog came near her on a leash and would curl her lips. The aggression towards dogs escalated. She lunged at strange dogs. My daughter engaged a renowned trainer well versed in bully breeds to come see her and she taught all of us some methods of helping Sophie Mae but her sad evaluation was that Sophie Mae was not right. Some wiring had been snipped that could never truly be repaired.

That was a year ago and Sophie Mae has been kept strictly away from dogs she does not know. A few weeks ago Sophie Mae bit my terrier. It was not the first time but this time the way she went from standing to lethal weapon stunned us. We talked about it for long hours, about how her aggression had been turning to strangers. Even more concerning was that she’d started barking at children walking by the yard and her hackles would go up if startled by someone she didn’t know and know well. No amount of correction worked. She hated being chastised, hated her people being angry withy her, and would turn on her back with a harsh word, but she had no control over whatever it was that set her off.

Once again my daughter spoke to several bully breed trainers, bully breed rescue people, and our vet. Sophie Mae was assessed. I won’t go into a long explanation about what this involved but the upshot was that Sophie Mae was not right. No amount training was going to turn her into a relaxed, solid, trustworthy dog. As my vet put it, “some dogs can’t climb the mountain of their earlier experiences.” The choices outlined for her were few: either find a Sophie Mae a home where she would never come into contact with other dogs and very few people or put her to sleep.

My daughter, who runs a small non-profit dog rescue, knows all to well what happens to most “iffy” rescued pitbulls: they bounce from home to home or shelter to shelter. If they are placed, they are lost to the original owner. My daughter could not face the idea of Sophie, her beautiful, sweet lapdog shivering in a kennel surrounded by the dogs that terrified her, or rotated through a series of foster homes where she would never be at ease because most foster homes, wonderful people that they are, have more than one dog. Or kept away from small children because no one can take a risk with a potentially aggressive dog—pitbull or not. Or worst of all somehow ending up in the hands of a monster to be used as a “sparring partner.”

Dog fighting is a crime whose victims suffer throughout their lifetime. I am glad that many of Michael Vick’s dogs were salvageable, that they were able to overcome a horrifying and inhumane past and learn to trust and play and be happy again. But not all such dogs have happy endings. While Michael Vick and other criminals are offered the choice of rehabilitation that choice wasn’t open to Sophie Mae. She was doomed from the beginning by things done to her as a puppy by savages on two legs. Yes. I am emotional. I am angry. I am sad. Because yesterday afternoon my husband and I took our Sophie Mae to our wonderful, compassionate vet to be euthanized. My daughter simply could not do it. So I sat with Sophie’s head in my lap during the process. I kissed her cheek and scratched her ear and whispered over and over that she was the best dog in the world. And it broke my heart.

There are no good options for a dog like Sophie Mae. No second chances to rejoin the doggy equivalent of the NFL. Just death.

I’ll miss her sweet face and her warm body curled up next to mine, the goofy way she leapt around a Bonz treat as if she’d just had a hundred years of Christmases thrown at her at once. I’ll miss her happy grinning face when she burst through the front door of our house looking for me. I’ll miss her teasing my spaniel by racing by him carrying his favorite ball. I’ll miss her somersaults onto the couch. I’ll miss her nibbling on my earlobe. I’ll miss her sighs of contentment and her woofs of doggy joy.

May a thousand Christmases await you, Sophie Mae. Until we meet again.

Connie Brockway

“> Four years ago, I came home from booktour and found an exasperated husband. He’d ordered my Valentine’s Day present, they’d lied about how long it would take to be delivered, so all he had for me was a card. Actually, two cards. One from him. One from the dogs. But he kept saying things like, “I was going to have everything re-arranged when you got here,” and “I don’t know how many delivery guys they’re sending,” and most important, “I don’t know when it’s going to get here because I can’t track it.”

Huh? It sounded like furniture, but I kept looking around the house thinking, “A dining room table? No, he wouldn’t dare.” “A new desk? No, he wouldn’t dare.” I had no idea what it could be.

Now, Scott is like most guys. He seems insulted by the idea that he should kept track of the things I want so he can buy them for me on those weird celebrations like, oh, say, my birthday. In fact, despite the six million commercials and billboards and personal reminders, Christmas always seems to catch him by surprise. (“I didn’t have time to shop! I’ve been busy!”) Yeah, yeah.

But sporadically he does something wonderful. On one of our anniversaries — not a milestone anniversary, just an anniversary — he gave me a series of packages. A plant. A pair of green pajamas. A green sweater. (Do you sense a theme?) The last two gifts were a pair of emerald earrings and a gorgeous emerald ring. Years ago, he drove my mother and my sister to the mall, found a sweater wrap he liked, and bought it. This story is only notable for my sister’s comment — “What is this? Christina’s Thursday gift?” The occasion I remember most fondly was a time we were moving. The kids were little. Scott and I had been up all night packing. First thing in the morning he went out for more tape (or something) and came back with doughnuts. I almost cried with joy. Yep, folks, the way to Christina’s heart is sugar and fat-fried dough glazed with more sugar and fat.

Back to my Valentine’s Day present — Scott finally gets the call that it’s coming between 8am and noon. He tells me I have to get up before the delivery people arrive.

So it’s something in the bedroom???

They drive up. I steadfastly don’t look. But I know it’s so wide they’re having trouble getting it through the front door. I’m berserk with curiosity. They leave, and I finally get to look.

Well ... have you seen those massage chairs? The really really good ones? The ones that massage your neck and shoulders when you’ve been typing so long all your muscles are in knots? OH MY GOD!!! Just ... OH MY GOD!!!

Here’s the description:
The Lifestyle™ Chair features eight primary massage modes including: Swedish, Kneading, Hawaiian, Percussion, Compression, Tapping, Shiatsu and Rolling. For your convenience it has four pre-programmed modes: Shiatsu, Swedish, Stretch and 5-minute Quick Massage, as well as Full, Upper and Lower Back programs. Full-body stretching releases tension in back and hips. Calf massage soothes and reinvigorates tired calves and legs.

OH MY GOD!!!

“> There’s only one thing that can make you, um … wow. The Shiatsu. Nice. Very, very nice. … One thing … stretch those legs, baby! Stretch them! … One thing that makes you feel this good … whoa. When I push that button, the rollers up and down and back and forth … There’s only one thing that can me you feel this good, and it’s ... well, yes, that, for sure.  But the other thing that makes you feel this good is … oh, yes. Right there. A little to the left. Yes, yes, YES!!! … A book! IN BED WITH THE DUKE And that scene with the sex...while he’s wearing a mask…

OH MY GOD!!!

Read an except! http://christinadodd.com/excerpt.php?excerptid=49
Join my mailing list to read an extra excerpt! http://christinadodd.com/members/

Yes, it’s true. In March 1991, my first book, CANDLE IN THE WINDOW, was published. CANDLE IN THE WINDOW won Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart and RITA awards and has never been out of print. Around my house, we call it THE BOOK THAT WILL NOT DIE.
“>
On Tuesday, September 1, a mere eighteen and a half years later, my fortieth book, STORM OF SHADOWS hits the shelves. This is an Event Worth Celebrating, so let me share Some Thoughts About Publishing. Warning — this is Serious. (Christina waits for the dust from the stampede to settle, looks around at the empty room, and shows the qualities that have helped her survive so long —an immense ego and a willingness to talk into a vacuum.)

MY TOP TEN POINTS OF WISDOM

10. After ten years in the business, an author has A Well Established Career. After eighteen and a half, an author is an Expert, a Venerable Institution … a Crone. Pardon me while I go to pluck the stiff white hairs off the chin of my current manuscript.

9. From my vantage point, everyone in publishing is doing better than I am. From everyone else’s vantage point, I’m doing better than they are. The truth is somewhere in between — and an author who’s published is not going to get any sympathy at all from an unpublished author who’s written for ten years, finished three manuscripts and has twenty-five rejection letters. Believe me. I know. I was that author.

8. Editors are sometimes right.

7. How well an autographing goes is not an indicator of how well your career is going. Thank God.

6. I’ve published forty full-length novels and contributed six stories to anthologies. Some books are hard to write. Some books are easy. Some books are beloved by many. Some books are reviled by the vile. And as the author I never have an idea which books will be my most popular. Never. I have to give up trying. Soon.

5. Some people write mean reviews. I don’t read them.

4. Some readers just don’t like my writing. That’s okay, everyone has their right to their own taste. As long as they don’t write mean reviews about my books.

3. Some readers love my books. Some of them write good reviews. Some of them write me heartfelt letters of appreciation. Some of them come to meet me and say wonderful things, sometimes with tears in their eyes. Some of them buy my books and never let me know. God bless them every one.

2. I can’t remember my characters’ names, and I live with them day and night for months while I write their books. So I apologize in advance, but I’m hopeless and I’m never going to remember your name, either.

1. I am never going to understand what people mean when they say I write funny books. I write serious, meaningful, emotional, sexy books that somehow get translated into funny.

AND THE NUMBER ONE POINT OF WISDOM CHRISTINA DODD HAS TO SHARE IS:

1. When a Writer/Crone lies about having ten points to make but there are actually more, it’s not a lie. It’s “Fiction.”

MORE NUMBER ONE POINTS:

1. Nine out of ten people in the U. S. want to write a book. One out of that nine thinks s/he’ll do it “when s/he has a free weekend.” In many states, it’s a misdemeanor to kill this person.

1. Publishing is divided into two distinct occupations — Writing Books and Being an Author. Writing Books consists of being alone for months on end, creating imaginary people who converse, face challenges, and make love. Being an Author consists of introducing yourself to sometimes incredulous booksellers, talking to total strangers as they enter Wal-mart in the hopes of selling them a book, and interacting with publishers and editors in a manner that will convince them you’re sane enough to write forty more books. This is why all authors are schizophrenic.

1. It’s well worth pondering that most people don’t have a cool job that consists of being alone for months on end while creating imaginary people who converse, face challenges, and make love. It’s worth the schizophrenia.

1. The more you write, the faster you write, the more skilled you become.

1. Spend every last dime of your first advance taking your family to Disneyworld. Especially if you’re poor. Publishing your first book is a life-changing event. Treat it like one.

1. The best thing a writer can have if she wants to be successful is a mother who believes she’s wonderful. A husband who believes she’s wonderful and supports her for ten years while she tries to get published helps, too. Failing those things, the most important thing an author can have is an absolutely brutish belief in herself and her talent, and she can never ever allow the facts to change that faith.

“> THE NUMBER ONE NUMBER ONE POINT:

1. The Girl Scouts have a song with the lyrics that go, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.” The Girl Scouts know a lot about publishing. And people. And my friends.

Thank you for a great eighteen and a half years, and I look forward to writing the next forty books … for you.

Warmly,
Christina Dodd
http://www.christinadodd.com
For the wild at heart!

I’ve had a few arguments with people, but I never carry a grudge.  You know why?  Because while you’re carrying a grudge, they’re out dancing. — Buddy Hackett

Whenever I hear that phrase, “Just write the book of your heart,” I grind my teeth and turn an unattractive red color, sort of like Yosemite Sam right before he blows steam out his ears.

The Book Of Your Heart. What does that even mean?

As I understand it, The Book Of Your Heart is the deep, meaningful, sincere story of something Very Important to You.

Which leads us to the next logical question — do you only have one Book Of Your Heart? Unless you’re Margaret Mitchell and the book is GONE WITH THE WIND, one book will not give you a writing career.

Is your heart commercial? Does it team with interesting characters, fast pacing, and memorable dialogue? Because if it doesn’t, there’s a good chance you can’t sell The Book Of Your Heart. Do you want to write a book no one will ever read? Because every writer I’ve ever met who has suffered through the anguish, the anxiety, the pure put-you-butt-in-the-chair-for-hours-and-days-and-months-on-end agony, wants to publish that book. And have it read. To great acclaim. By Dan Brown’s audience. Every single one of Dan Brown’s audience. And that will only happen if The Book Of Your Heart is commercially viable.

Does this mean I advocate writing The Book Of Your Wallet? The one book that will be published to great acclaim and read by Dan Brown’s audience? Sure. Go for it — if you know what it is, and if you feel a passion for the story, a passion you can translate to the page. I’ve written forty books, plus six anthologies, and I’ve loved every single story. Each one has been a deep, meaningful, sincere story of something Very Important to Me. Moreover, I have a file of books that I want to write in the future, and I’m able to look at each one with a critical eye and ask, “Which of these do I want passionately to write ... which will also most further my career?”

I have a job I love — but it is a job, one that supports me and my family, and I intend to make intelligent (as far as possible in publishing), informed (as far as possible in publishing) decisions about the stories I tell. Because (thank you, God), my heart is teaming with books.

STORM OF VISIONS, out now. STORM OF SHADOWS, September 1! Read excerpts and watch videos!

“So did you cry during PUPPY LOVE?” “No, Daddy, I cried during TOO YOUNG and THE TWELFTH OF NEVER.”

This was the conversation I had with my dad the morning after my husband took me to see Donny Osmond in concert. When I was eleven, my dad brought home my very first Donny Osmond album, a decision I’ve often wondered if he regretted--especially after he had to repaint my entire bedroom when we moved because my gazillion Donny posters had pulled all the paint off the wall!

Donny recently enjoyed a well-deserved resurgence in his career based on his CD, WHAT I MEANT TO SAY. The single BREEZE ON BY is was #18 with a bullet on the Smooth Jazz Billboard chart and the most telling review I’ve seen is the one that reads, “This is the best album George Michael never made.” He still sells out 15,000 seat arenas in England and when the tickets recently went on sale for his fall tour in the U.K., they sold out a year in advance in a single day. In the U.S., the CD was a #1 Pop seller at Wal-Mart and the #2 Pop seller at Amazon. If you like a smooth blend of jazz and pop a la George Michael in his LISTEN WITHOUT PREJUDICE phase, I HIGHLY recommend this CD.

On the real-life hero front, Donny’s been married to his wife Debbie for 31 years now (they married when he was 19). They have 5 boys and he’s already a grandfather. 

Even my husband was impressed with the two-hour show we saw! Donny did several songs from the new CD and the adoring audience seemed to love them just as much as the old stuff. His voice was better than ever--strong, mellow, and mature. (Andrew Lloyd Webber recently invited him to do the Phantom role in London but he had to turn it down due to a scheduling conflict.) At the beginning of the second half, sitting all by himself at the piano, he did what we’d all been waiting for--several of his older songs reworked in lovely, slightly jazzy arrangements. He followed them with a version of THIS GUY’S IN LOVE WITH YOU (included on the CD mentioned above) that was absolutely sublime. (And yes, I did give in to the urge to scream, “We love you, Donny!!!” at least once. His response to such accolades: “I love you, too, babe!")

Whether he was talking, singing, or dancing, he claimed the stage with extraordinary confidence. After struggling for 20 years with the burden of being a genuinely talented individual who could never break free of the “teen idol” label, it was clear that this was a man who had finally embraced his past and felt comfortable in his own skin.

As he sang and danced, I kept catching fleeting glimpses of the boy I had loved superimposed over the man and for the first time in a very long time, I remembered what it had been like to be the girl who had loved him--a girl full of hope and yearning and dreams and possibilities. I went to that concert in search of Donny Osmond, but what I found was a little piece of myself that I hadn’t even realized was missing.

And that, Donny, is why we still love you.

(Teresa is rerunning this classic Squawk blog to celebrate Donny Osmond appearing on DANCING WITH THE STARS this season. Make sure and tune in and vote! )