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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!

I have something very special for you. A new video, not your usual book video at all … I want you to go watch it right now, then come back. I’ll wait right here. http://www.christinadodd.com/video_cia.html (whistling, tapping my fingers …)

You’re back! Isn’t that great? The video was so much fun to write and make! I’ve been anxiously waiting for the reprint of CASTLES IN THE AIR to hit the shelves so I could share the video with you — and you could share it with your friends.

The really good news is that CASTLES IN THE AIR has been re-released with a new, beautiful, normal cover, and it’s a darned entertaining story. Read the excerpt:

ENGLAND 1166

Then again, perhaps she couldn’t say anything. Bundled as she was, with her head bobbing beside the horse’s belly, he couldn’t see her face, and he began to wonder if she could breathe properly. Leaning down, he groped for her face, and those same strong teeth he admired bit deep into his fingertips. He jerked his hand back with a grunt and an oath.

Hadn’t he compared her to a wild creature? His own carelessness was responsible for his pain.

Her breath froze as she panted harshly, the sound rending the still air. Scratched from the sky by bare, ice-tipped branches, the snow sifted down relentlessly, filling the spaces between the dried leaves with a thin layer of white. It was cold, and getting colder by the moment. “We’ll be there soon,” he said aloud, and held her firmly as his promise brought renewed strife.

He topped the hill. Here the threatening blizzard threatened no more. It was reality, and the world disintegrated into a narrow, white passage that opened as they moved through and closed behind them. The woodcutter’s hut stood not far ahead, yet he worried about the lady. He leaned over to give her his body warmth and peered ahead.

Dug into the hill, the hut proved a godsend for him, providing a stock of fuel for warmth and a store of dried foods. Traveler’s provender, he’d guessed, provided by Lady Juliana of Lofts … and used by him for her abduction.

Order CASTLES IN THE AIR from Borders:
http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?sku=0061080349

Order CASTLES IN THE AIR from Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Castles-Air-Christina-Dodd/dp/0061080349/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256856883&sr=1-2

And remember — forward this letter and the link for the CASTLES IN THE AIR video http://www.christinadodd.com/video_cia.html to your friends who like a good laugh and a good book!

Warmly,

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

One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child’s name and how old he or she is. — Erma Bombeck

Being a witch comes naturally to some—no, not the Witch Political, the old fashioned caricature. You know.  Wicked Witch of the West. The cackling hag. The hook-nosed, green skinned, wart covered old bat that pokes out newts’ eyes for her diabolical soups...Oops. Sorry. I got carried away. Anyway, my point is that I possess a natural bent towards such witchiness and all things Halloween that my husband doesn’t. So, of course, when our kid (Doodah) started making the trick or treat rounds Daddy got nominated to trudge dutifully behind her as I gleefully remained home, ohing and awing at the various ghouls and monsters and politicians (and yes, that grouping was purposeful) that showed up with hands out stretched and bags at ready. 

But soon, oh-ing and ah-ing palled and I began to yearn to partake more fully in the festivities and the first thought that came to min was that I could be a witch. Mind you, this was long before the explosion of Halloween as a commercial industry. People carved pumpkins and doled out candy and sometimes stuck an animated 14” tall, moon-walking Frankenstein in their front windows but that was pretty much it. The first year I dressed up I put down as my rehearsal and while fun, it wasn’t as much fun as I had envisioned it being. Somehow, opening my suburban door dressed in black dress and wearing a wig failed to strike awe into the tender little breasts of my neighbor kids. Which , of course, was my goal. Children today are too sophisticated. Even the three year old from down the block could see through my disguise – or maybe she just didn’t think there was enough difference between what I opened the door in and my usual muck-about-the-yard garb.

The next year I decided to go for broke. Oh, mind, I wasn’t about to dump tons of money we didn’t have into the project but with a little ingenuity and some really dim lights, I made out. I donned my navy blue bathrobe, floor length with a zip front, bought a pointy hat at JoAnne Fabrics, and liberated Doodah’s karaoke machine (complete with vibrato special effects) from the attic where it had been banished until Doodah could carry a tune (still waiting for that.) Then, just after the dinner hour, I climbed out onto the faux balcony above the garage with a bag of mini-snickers bars, turned the karaoke machines’ volume and vibrato up full blast, and peeled forth with the witchly cackle to end all cackles. I have it on good authority that as many as three blocks away strong men paled upon hearing my witchly bell canto. And when flocks of little goblins came tripping up to my front door I would peer over the eaves and cackle, “Hey kiddies! Want a treat or would you rather I had one....?” Oh. I’m giving myself shills. Not as many as I gave the neighborhood kids who clutched each other and screamed in a rhapsody of delighted terror as I lured them forth in my karaoke enhanced voice, “Here, kiddie, kiddie. Here kiddie, kiddie.” As soon as they reached the porch, I’d lean over and toss down their candy to them. And a good time was had by all.

So began my blighted career as the Balfanz Witch.

I am humbled to admit that I was an instant hit with the sub-ten crowd.  As the years went by my notoriety grew. People would walk for blocks to come to the house just so I could rain snicker bars down on their kids –and just what does that say about parents of today, anyway? Then one cold, blustery Halloween night it all came to an end. Hubris and my own ignorance of the average thirteen year old’s capacity for revenge were my undoing.

I was sitting on my roof about to call it a night. It was late, the four to seven year old crowd were long gone and the eight to eleven year old surge was pretty much over, too. All that was left were the twelve to fourteen year old stragglers. You know them. The older brothers and sisters of the darling tykes dressed up as Tinkerbelle and Pound Puppy? The age bracket that is too cool to dress up but are still young enough that the idea of a bag of free candy is irresistible? The stage of life where they are just perfecting the sneers that will pretty much carry them through the next half decade? Yeah, those kids. Anyway I was just about to call it a night when four females showed up. They were about thirteen or so and all four had turned their jackets around and wore hand printed envelopes that read “Backward Girl.” And to think all the years I’d been ashamed of Doodah’s cheapo ghost bedsheet…

They couldn’t see me; The lights were on over the front porch which made me, hovering on the rooftop overhead, invisible. They shuffled around at the bottom of the drive a few minutes and I could hear them talking. I have to admit that the only bit of charm this quartet showed that night was their speech. It was a weird synthesis of 80’s Valley Girl vocabulary with a Fargo-esque accent.

“This is that house where that lady dresses up as a witch,” said Backward Girl #1.

“Oh, fer lame,” said Backward Girl #2.

“Duh,” Backward Girl #3 agreed –at least I think that was meant as an agreement. “What-ever.”

“It’s like way stoo-pid,” said Backward Girl #4. “Who’d be scared of some old witch dressed up like some old witch?”

There ensued hoots of laughter at this penultimate example of pubescent wit.

“Totally,” Backward Girl #1 said when the hilarity died down. “It’s like so sketchy. ‘Look at me! I’m a scary witch!’ It’s like totally lame.”

“You betcha, er, I mean, totally,” Backward Girl # 4 agrees.

“So, then, let’s go and get our candy,” Backward Girl # --oh, hell who cares which girl said what? They were like totally interchangeable anyway.

Now, I am not proud of what happened next but I was a trifle offended by these aspersions on my ability to strike terror into kids’ hearts so, in a truly uninspired moment, I decided to have a little “fun” with the girls. As they started up the driveway, I crept out off the balcony and onto the roof, lurking just out of the sight at the edge of the eaves.

They milled about on the porch a few seconds before one of them pushed the doorbell as another said, “I am so scared I can hardly stand it.” At which point, I popped out over the eaves, just above their heads and shout, “Heya girls!” in my best-cracked, wicked witch voice.

Their reaction was all a defamed witch could want. They jumped at least a foot in the air, shrieked like banshees, and clutched each other like, well, like little girls. 

“Want some candy?” I cackled.

They did not want some candy. Their terror was, of course, over in a matter of seconds, and I reckoned they’d just stomp off in a teenage huff. I reckoned wrong. I know. Stupid. In my own defense, all I can say was that Doodah was little yet and I didn’t yet know that the absolute worst thing in the world you can do to a thirteen year old girl is embarrass her in front of her peers and that if you do, you do so at your own peril.

“Get her, girls!” Backwards Girl Whatever shouted as with a cry of young female rage (the most fieresome kind), the girls fell to the ground and started scooping up windfall crabapples.
I squatted on the roof, mouth gaping, as the little bi—er, witches started hurling crabapples at me. Lots of crabapples! And I’m going on record today to say I think at least a couple of those girls must have ended up on the Olympic fast pitch softball team because those suckers HURT!

Now, I was not in a good position being stuck on a steeply sloping roof as I was, so I started a quick retreat, crabapples whacking my hat askew and making way too many directs hits on the undoubtedly too easy target of my giant bathrobe encased bum. By the time I scrambled back onto the balcony, I was ready for some payback –I did mention this maybe wasn’t my finest moment-- but I didn’t have any crabapples. What I did have was mini-snickers bars. Lots of ‘em,

The ensuing battle raged for a good ten minutes, volleys of dozens of crabapples countered by my own sniper-like accuracy with one candy bar at a time. We fought grimly, mutely, and in earnest, the silence punctuated by little “Uffs!” and an occasional “Ow!” and quite a few expletives (and these weren’t from me.)

Alas, despite my valiant last stand, ultimately there could only be one outcome: there were, after all, five crabapple trees down on the front lawn and only two bags of candy on the balcony with me, and I know when to quit. So, pitching my last snicker bar, I raised my fist and shook it at the sneering girls below, then made as regal an exit as through a small window as one can while wearing a witch hat and a bathrobe. The girls hooted in mockery.

And thus ended my career as the Balfanz Witch. The blue bathrobe returned to being just a bathrobe, the wig has long since been bequeathed to a new generation of witches, and the karaoke machine sits in the attic gathering dust. And Me? I learned a valuable lesson, one that I’m afraid I needed to learn over andover again when Doodah reached puberty: Never, ever underestimate the retaliatory response of an embarrassed teenage girl.

I’d like to say I was disheartened by my experience, that the fun of dressing up just wasn’t there after that night, but the truth was I didn’t dare go out the next year. Or the next. I was afraid they’d come back and next time they’d be packing regular-sized apples.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

Aside from Julian in my very own THE VAMPIRE WHO LOVED ME, Spike from BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER is my all-time favorite vampire. (I started to say “fictional vampire”, then realized that would be redundant.) With or without a soul, Spike with his soulful eyes, biting wit, and self-deprecating humor could definitely tempt me to try love at first bite. (And my oh my, what about those cheekbones???!!!)

Spike (as portrayed by the incomparable James Marsters) arrived in Sunnydale early in the second season with his lunatic lover Druscilla in tow. Introduced as the definitive Big Bad, no one could have guessed his character’s journey would lead him to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with Buffy, proving just how quickly loathing can turn to love when one’s nemesis is a diminutive blonde with a martyr complex and a weakness for creatures of the night.

Their sizzling chemistry was explored in Season Four in the episode “Something Blue” when a heartbroken Willow inadvertantly cast a love spell on the vampire and the Slayer. To the horror of Buffy’s friends and family, Buffy and Spike begin to nuzzle each other’s necks and pick out china patterns for their wedding. In Spike’s piece de resistance, the Season Five episode “Fool for Love”, the pre-vampire Spike is revealed to have been a sensitive soul, something of a mama’s boy who was christened “Spike” and “William the Bloody” not because he was so fearsome but because he wrote poetry so bloody awful it made you want to drive a spike through your forehead. (What writer who has ever been reviewed by KIRKUS couldn’t identify with that?) This episode also revealed that by the 1980’s Spike had metamorphosed into a leather-clad vampire so preternaturally cool that Billy Idol stole his platinum locks and rebel’s snarl.

Spike won my heart for keeps at the end of this episode when he marched up to Buffy’s house with shotgun in hand, determined to purge his life and heart of the Slayer forever. Instead he ended up letting her cry on his shoulder while he awkwardly patted hers. More tingles ensued when Buffy and Spike finally consummated their attraction with a swoon-worthy kiss at the end of the legendary musical episode, “Once More with Feeling.”

What I’d like to know is: Who is YOUR favorite vampire of all-time? Do you prefer Angel’s Heathcliff-style brooding to Spike’s caustic sarcasm? Did Frank Langella’s smoldering DRACULA tempt you to leave your balcony door unlocked or would you prefer to have Gary Oldman’s untrimmed fingernails caressing your throat? Does Louis or Lestat light your fire? Do you prefer the laid-back Southern gentleman Bill from Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse series or the cunning and elegant Jean-Claude from Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake books?  In a fictional world where every vampire has a little bit of soul, who would YOU be most likely to greet at your front door with those two immortal words, “Bite me”???

Visit Teresa’s Website

Q. Where did you get the idea for TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS?

A. Wal-mart.

Q. No, really.

A. Sure! Didn’t you know? “Ideas for sale.” They’re on the aisle right between the dog food and the service desk. Check it out.

Actually, TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS had a rough beginning. I was starting a romantic suspense series, the Fortune Hunters. I had gotten approval for a book set in New Orleans and had written about a hundred pages, and in fact was going to fly for research on the day Hurricane Katrina hit the city. I knew I had to wait to write that story, but I had a deadline I needed to meet and I had no back-up plot. So I went to Wal-mart and browsed the book section, looking for a deep, intellectual, meaningful read that would elevate the tenor of my mind. Of course, I headed right for the Harlequin Presents which are my favorite books of all time.

Q. Wait. They’re short, basic books featuring a rich, domineering hero and a poor, dumb heroine whose deadbeat brother steals from said hero, then blackmails the heroine into becoming his mistress for a week and of course they have great sex, then she has a secret baby, then they have to get married, then they struggle against their love for each other before finally giving in and having great sex forever.

A. I know. Harlequin Presents are romance boiled down to its most basic form. Love them. Anyway—I picked up a book titled something like THE VIRGIN’S ONE NIGHT STAND WITH A TYCOON, and read the back. Her fiancé dumped her and her tycoon boss thoughtfully offered to help her out with a one night stand. What a guy. I flipped through the first few pages. The heroine was whiny and guilty, which I hated. She should have been in a magnificent towering rage. Next I hit the romantic suspense, picked up STAB ME THROUGH MY TENDER HEART (fake title, I have no idea what it really was) and read the back. This woman slept with the wrong guy. He hid his cocaine (or some nefarious thing) in her house, and now someone was trying to kill her and she had to depend on the help of a noble policeman/private detective/FBI agent to get her out of this mess.

But I liked the bad guy! What if her fiancé dumped her, she picked out a guy to sleep with and it was a bad guy—and she couldn’t get rid of him? She would have just stepped in a huge pile of doo! As soon as I thought that one phrase — She would have just stepped in a huge pile of doo!—I knew I had a plot. Because that’s what I look for in a plot—a big pile of doo for the characters to step in. So TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELSinvolves two ideas mushed together.

Q. That’s all? You knew the whole plot from that?

A. Okay, no. Plotting the actual moment-to-moment action is difficult for me. But I didn’t have time to fool around, so I took what I knew about the story and wrote as much of the synopsis as quickly as I could. When I got stuck, I called author friends and begged them to help me brainstorm, I woke up at night and sweated as I tried to figure out how to stage a jewel robbery, I plotted with my husband, I sent the synopsis to my editor and brainstormed with her. And I started writing even though I didn’t know exactly where I was going. Despite all that uncertainty and panic, the book went together like a dream. To me it’s a rare and wonderful treat, a gift book blessed by the gods of creativity.

TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS is so good it’s been repackaged as part of DANGEROUS LADIES, the trade (large-sized) paperback. DANGEROUS LADIES also includes the second book of the Fortune Hunter series, TONGUE IN CHIC. So if you haven’t tried my romantic suspense titles, now is the time! (For a complete listing of my series, here’s a printable book list. http://christinadodd.com/booklist_print.pdf Here’s a list of my excerpts! http://www.christinadodd.com/excerpts.php And in case you haven’t read through my Frequently Asked Questions, there’s a lot of information there including my upcoming pub schedule! http://christinadodd.com/faqs.html )

Order DANGEROUS LADIES from Barnes and Noble! http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Dangerous-Ladies/Christina-Dodd/e/9780451228826/?itm=1&usri=DANGEROUS+LADIES

Order DANGEROUS LADIES from Amazon! http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Ladies-Christina-Dodd/dp/0451228820/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254607323&sr=1-1

Order DANGEROUS LADIES from Borders! http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?sku=0451228820

A side note: Do you know someone who reads my books but isn’t on my mailing list, doesn’t follow me on Twitter or Facebook? Would you please pass this info on? I know darn good and well someone’s going to buy DANGEROUS LADIES, realize they already own the books and they’ll be mad at me when we all know this is why you’re on my list, so you can find this stuff out and spend your hard-earned dollars on other wonderful romances! Thank you in advance. I appreciate your help!

Warmly,

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

It’s a good thing beauty is only skin deep or I’d be rotten to the core — Phyllis Diller

No, this is not a recipe for cat stew with a soupcon of pumpkin. I just couldn’t find an appetizing picture of beans so I thought this autumn kitty was the perfect intro to the first day of October .

I have no idea why they call this recipe a hot bean salad. I prefer to think of it as a hot bean stew. What can I say? Any recipe that contains both bacon and brown sugar is tops on my list. This simple and hearty dish will certainly warm the tummy on those first cool autumn days!

BETSY’S BUMPUS BEANS

INGREDIENTS
1 can of corn
1 can of kidney beans (light red)
1 can of pork & beans
2 TBS mustard
1 cup ketchup
3/4 cup light brown sugar
1 large onion (optional)
1 TBS vinegar
1 1/2 - 2 lbs ground chuck or lean ground beef
1 lb bacon

DIRECTIONS
Mix all ingredients EXCEPT for onion, ground beef and bacon in crock pot
Brown ground beef and onion and add to crock pot
Fry bacon until lightly crisp, crumble it and add to crock pot (I like to cut my bacon into 2 inch pieces before I cook it)

Cook in crock pot for 2 hours on high, then on low until ready to serve (Or just leave on LOW all day if you’re going to be gone.)

Dear Friends,
The publishing world was deeply saddened today as we learned of the loss of Kensington editor and dear friend Kate Duffy. She was much beloved by her authors and even more astonishing, she was beloved by authors who had never even had the privilege of working with her. She was a tremendous supporter of the romance genre and she truly loved the books she edited and promoted with such enthusiasm and devotion. She was also a big supporter of Squawk Radio.

God bless you, Kate. We’ll miss you dearly.

KITTY: Okay, Kate. The squawkers have nixed all the good questions as being unsuited to your “exalted position,” a phrase so ripe for comment that I think I’ll probably end up at the pearly gates just onthe merits of resisting it alone. Anyway, Toots, let’s get this over so we can hit the bars.

KATE : Amen, sister.

KITTY: You’re the Editorial Director at Kensington. What does that entail exactly? And feel free to go into long descriptive passages about thrones and scepters.

KATE: I read books, I buy books, I make suggestions for the cover copy and the cover art, I do long range planning and short range planning and family planning. OK, maybe not the last one. I represent the company to the authors and the author to the company. And on Wednesday, I have buttered scones for tea.

KITTY: Let us talk now about Kate Duffy, the woman. Who is she? What experiences fashioned her young life? What were her fragile dreams and at what tender age were they ripped from her like the wings from butterflies and flung—oops. Sorry. Talking about me again. Tell me about you.

KATE: I was talking with Walter Zacharius one day (he owns Kensington ) and I was wondering why some of my colleagues seemed to think I could be difficult on occasion when I am such a pixie and he said, “Yeah, a pixie with a machete.” Frankly, I cannot understand this. I am a giver, I am a people person, I have a Schweitzer-like reverence for every living thing – as long as you do my biding. Otherwise, not. For myself, Kitty, I don’t ask much. Maybe, a little kindness, a little respect and a lot of money to buy great books. That’s not really too much to ask is it?

KITTY: No. You could have thrown in a few Cubano Perfectos and still come off ‘umble.
Let’s say I see you at RWA and I wanta schmooze you. What should my opening salvo be? “Hi Kate. How’s the (fill in the blank)? Been (fill in the blank) lately? What did you think of the last episode of (fill in the blank)?”

KATE: Oh, good I love mad-libs. Just don’t mention if I have rejected your book at any time in the past. It makes me skittish if you make any sudden moves. Other than that, I am very schmoozable.

KITTY: You’ve been an editor for a real… What? Oh, shut up, Brockway. I know how to do an interview. Sorry about that, Kate. Now, you’ve edited ... a lot. Who all have you edited? Name names.

KATE: Like you are younger than springtime. From Jude Deveraux (some of the Velvet books and the Twin books) and Judith McNaught ( WHITNEY, MY LOVE) to my current victims among whom are Janet Dailey, Lori Foster, Susan Johnson and Mary Janice Davidson.

KITTY: Who was your favorite author to edit? And why?

KATE: There are so many things I could say here but I am going to resist. They are all wonderful. Each and every one. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

KITTY: Yeah and JFK and I just “talked.” What’s the most innovative thing you’ve done as an editor?

KATE: Invented whole companies and imprints like Silhouette and Brava.

KITTY: Okay, you’ve started some racy lines there at Kensington. What’s the deal with all this sex? I mean in the books.

KATE: I know it’s been a while, Kitty, but romance sometimes leads to sex and in fiction, it leads to great sex. Which sells a lot of books.

KITTY: Hey, don’t loook at me. Brockway made me ask that one. And now, “Let’s talk James Frey.” Personally, I like the kid. He’s got moxie. True, a case might be made that he’s not too bright but let’s face it, who would have guessed his book was going to tear up the lists?

What’s your take on his book? As a reader and as a member of the publishing community? Where do you think all this outrage comes from? I mean, seriously, if the worse lie the world had to endure is one that makes Oprah look silly, I’d call the world fortunate.

KATE: A couple of years ago, a former colleague of mine here, Tracy Bernstein was asked the following question at a writers conference. Keep in mind, ANGELA’S ASHES was on the bestseller list at the time. This lady raised her hand and asked Tracy the following, “I would really like to write a memoir but my life is so boring. Can I write my memoir about someone else?”

This is going to sound like being brilliant after the fact but I didn’t believe a lot of it (the book) when I read it before the fracas. Fracas is a word I like to write but think I look silly saying out loud. Fracas. Oh, where was I? You know, the part where he hauls his bloody and bruised carcass onto a plane? I don’t think so. But I didn’t feel ripped off. It was a good read. Publishing and Oprah’s response left me breathless and not in a good way.

KITTY: Also, and being practical here, as one of the squawkers put it: “A crack-addict lied? Wow. Imagine that.”

That’s it! You’re free, Kate. Thank you for helping me keep this gig. It’s just temporary, you know. Until I get back on my feet. Did I mention I have a memoir I’m pitching?

KATE: Thank you, Kitty. You leave me breathless, too, and not in a good way.