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In my newest book, HOW TO ABDUCT A HIGHLAND LORD (new on the shelves this month!), sexy Black Jack Kincaid goes to a lot of time and effort to buy Fiona, his wife, a a gift, though he does so for all the wrong reasons. That made me think about what I want (and don’t want!) for Valentine’s Day.
Gather around, my chickies, and check out my Three Golden Rules for getting a Picture Perfect Valentine’s Gift.

First, Speak Plainly or Be Surprised (and not in a Good Way).

Men don’t take hints. It’s against their genetic makeup. The Weaker Gender (the one that speaks only 1/4th of the words a day that their female counterparts do) don’t possess the necessary communication skills to be anything other than direct.
When communicating to men, as with monkeys, dogs, or other wild animals, it makes sense to speak their language. So, if you have a specific gift you’d like, TELL THEM. Tell them plainly, simply, and with pictures, if they’re available.
If you want a red silk robe, say “I want a red robe like the one I put on lay-away at The Sex Cupboard. Oh, and by the way, it’s listed under your name.” That way, you’ll get EXACTLY what you want, when you want, and the way you want.

Second, if Speaking Plainly takes all of the Romance Out of The V-Day Process for you, Try Visual Hints.

Email him the url of the exact perfume you want, or simply cut a picture from the Victoria’s Secret Catalogue and paste it on the dashboard of his pickup truck.
This year, I’ve decided I want Christina Dodd’s newest book, TONGUE IN CHIC, for my Valentine’s Day Present. Of course, I’m afraid my dear heart will forget which book once he gets to the bookstore and I’ll end up with a Guns N Ammo magazine instead.
So, to keep the idea up front and center, I’m having the cover of Christina’s new book (along with the ISBN and the address for the closest bookstore), tattooed in henna on my backside. I’ll let you know if this method works.

Last, but not least, In Addition to Telling/Showing/Tattooing Your List for your dear heart, also tell him what you Don’t Want.

One year, I received a shiny, new .22 pistol for a present.
I’m not kidding – I got a pistol. For a present.
Now, I’m not a hunter. Or a gun fanatic. Nor do I have an affinity for firearms what-so-ever. If I did, that would have made this gift quite acceptable.
Do you remember when, as a child, you bought your mother a recipe packet for YOUR Easy-Bake Oven on Mother’s Day? She’d open it, smile, and say, “You know, perhaps YOU should just take this” which was what you wanted all along. Well, that’s why I got a gun for a present. Not because I wanted a gun, but because HE wanted one.
Saying what you want isn’t effective if you’re not equally plain about what you DON’T want. Like guns. Car products. Tools. Clothing that incorporates flannel in any way. Kitchen appliances. Or a can of WD-40.

Those are all on my Do Not list. If you don’t have a Do Not list, you might want to start one now and keep it in a visible place, like taped to the top of the six-pack in the fridge. It’ll save you innumerable hours in the exchange line at Sports World.

Ok, my little chickies! Those are my Three Rules. Have you ever gotten a dud present for V-Day or another occasion? Did you let your darling gift giver know? What are you doing about this year’s V-Day, to ensure that you receive a gift you’ll like?

Thanks for the warm welcome! I’m thrilled to be here and am doing my best not to gush too much over my hosts (you’re all great!!). I’ve spent many a contented hour reading their books. In my mind they represent the best of what we do in this business—tell amazing stories that remind us of the power of love and all that’s wonderful in our voyage around the sun. I have to confess, one of the coolest parts of my job is meeting the authors whose words have captured magic in their stories. The reader in me is speechless in awe!

It’s probably obvious that being an editor is a dream job for me. Oddly enough, the profession never featured on my career radar. I thought about being a teacher, a lawyer, a financial advisor (Liz, who has seen me struggle to figure out the tip in restaurants is killing herself laughing over that one), and too many other things to mention. I tried on many different jobs that didn’t fit and at one particularly stressful moment—I was considering doing bodily harm with sharpened pencils—I thought about what I’d love to do in a perfect world. Since the wealthy prince who would give me the life of leisure I so richly deserve wasn’t making an appearance, I settled on the next best thing—edit romance fiction. It was a moment of serendipity because I very soon landed a job here at Harlequin. Talk about stars being aligned!

I read a lot of manuscripts (obviously), but there are a lot of other tasks that fill my day. In fact, entire days can pass without me turning a manuscript page. There’s cover copy to prepare, art forms to fill out, meetings to attend, authors to contact, e-mail to avoid...er, I mean, answer, etc. As a result, it takes me longer to read manuscripts than I would like. Fortunately, the authors I work with are models of patience and understanding. And if they’re not, they do a great job of hiding their frustration from me

When I read a manuscript, I look for a story that sweeps me away, that makes me forget that I’m an editor. (Sometimes a story is so good I’ll realize I’ve consumed several pages as a reader, not an editor, and have to go back with my trusty pencil to edit the story!) I look for characters with strong motivations and sustainable inner conflict. Ideally the romantic conflict is so believable and seems so impossible to resolve that I think this hero and heroine won’t resolve their differences. (Confession time: at that moment of doubt I flip to the last few pages to be reassured that all ends well.) I love when authors surprise me, when they set a scene up to go in one direction but the characters’ decisions or external events take the scene in a completely unexpected one.

My barometer for a story’s ability to engage me is whether I can put a manuscript down. If I can leave in the middle of a scene to replenish my coffee or chat it up with my coworkers, then something in the story isn’t grabbing my attention and making me breathless to find out what happens next. It’s my job to figure out what that something is. It could be that the conflict isn’t as layered and complex as it should be—I can guess how it will be resolved. Maybe it’s the characters—I’m not connected to them, I don’t understand their motivations, I don’t know what they have riding on the outcome of this scene or even the story. Once I’ve landed on the issue, I think of possible ways to resolve it…which leads to revisions.

As any of the authors who work with me will attest, I’m a big believer in the revision process—and not only because it keeps me in a job! I believe we can always deepen an emotion, develop a theme, strengthen the character conflict, heighten the tension. It’s the Virgo in me, I know. But tweaking a few things here or there can make the story impossible for a reader to put down and bring a smile to her face every time. That’s my goal.

So now that I’ve told you a bit about me, I’d love to turn it over to you! I’m eager to answer questions you may have.

This actually is NOT my Harlequin editor, Wanda Ottewell. This is a photo that came up when I Google-imaged the word “editor.” I chose it because A) I realized belatedly that I don’t have a good pic of Wanda and myself together (on account of I take crappy photos that need massive airbrushing before they can go public), and B) my grandmother used to have a lamp like the one in the background of this one, with a map of the world design. Though, at that time, you could still see things on it like “Belgian Congo” and “Chinese Turkestan” and “Persia.” I bet I could get a bundle for it on “Antiques Roadshow.” If it still existed, I mean. Which it doesn’t.

Um, where was I?

Oh, right. My Harlequin editor, Wanda Ottewell--who DOES still exist, thank God--is going to be visiting with us here at Squawk Radio tomorrow. She’s worked for Harlequin for seven years, on several different lines, but primarily with Blaze. (She was also in charge of the Flipside line, which is where she and I first began working together.) She’s edited six of my books and one novella, and she’s done an incredible job with all of them. In fact, the first HQN she edited for me, YOU’VE GOT MALE, was my first Rita-nominated book in that category. Coincidence? I think not. But I think the defining moment of our author-editor relationship came at the RWA conference in Atlanta last summer when she showed up on Rita night wearing a pair of shoes identical to a pair that I myself own.

She loves reading romance and thinks it’s “the coolest industry to be in.” (Gotta agree with you on that one, Wanda!) She’s also very excited to be blogging with us tomorrow. So everyone, be your usual sweet, kind, charming selves for Wanda, and, Connie… Well, just do your best, Connie.  And please join me in welcoming my Obi-Wanda Kenobi to Squawk Radio: WANDA OTTEWELL!

Hi, everyone. I’m so excited to be here on Squawk! I’m a huge fan of all the writers here and yes, it’s true, I’ve know Christina forever!! I once looked after her two girls for a few days—a humorous tale given the fact I’m far more into pets than kids. At the time, I also wasn’t much into cooking, so everyone was terrified the girls would starve. Christina loaded my freezer and when that ran out, we did take-out. Well, except for one unfortunate meal involving some weird frozen thing I’d bought and apparently prepared wrong. They still talk about it…which is strange. I thought it was fine!

For those of you familiar with my books—feel free to ask anything! I’m in the mood to spill secrets.

I write. Given the 100+ books, I write a lot. Mostly because I love it. Writing is possibly the coolest thing in the world. There’s nothing else I would rather do with my day—okay, maybe sometimes I like to shop, too, but writing is really up there. I keep a fairly consistent writing schedule, I’m organized (which we’ll talk about tomorrow) and I manage my life really well. Or I did…until recently…when my life became all about…poop.

I have three pets, all of whom, go to the bathroom indoors. Nikki, possibly the world’s cutest dog, uses puppy pads. In Seattle, this is a good thing. Trust me, when it’s 38 degrees, windy and raining, you don’t want to be walking a dog. She has a couple of “bathrooms” and is very good about using them.

I also have two indoor cats who use a litter box. They’re both 14 and have never had an accident. Recently, I thought I’d reached a new high (or low—depending on your point of view) when Jake, my male cat, developed irritable bowel. Who knew cats could get it?? Apparently he’s become allergic to protein. When one is a cat, this is a problem.

I’ve seen an x-ray of his intestines and they are not a pretty place. So he’s on a special diet and an antibiotic and a steroid and he gets a vitamin B12 shot once a week. He seems to be improving. Speaking as the person to who is scooping the results of his irritable bowel several times a day, I can’t wait for things to pick up, so to speak.

His sister, Callie, was also having issues and we discovered she has a thyroid problem. Rather than give her a pill twice a day for the rest of her life—a process she seriously resists—she got a special treatment that zaps her thyroid and heals her in one easy step. There’s something with radioactive isotopes. I’m not clear on the whole procedure. But this is what I do know…I’m dealing with radioactive poop.

Uh huh…it’s in the post-op instructions. I have to collect her poop, store it in a covered container for two weeks, then hold it for 80 days before tossing it.

I guess this means her poop now has a half life. And as I can’t tell the difference between her poop and Jake’s, I’ll be collecting all of it. Did I mention Jake has irritable bowel? That there are days when he poops six or seven times? Now I not only get to scoop it up, I get to keep it. Like a treasure. There are absolutely no words to describe my joy.

Okay—now it’s your turn. What are your fabulous pet stories, or kid stories, or any stories. I need a good giggle, what with the poop issues in my house!

When Susan Mallery moved to Houston, we were told by Susan Wiggs (who also lived in Houston) that we should be friends. Being the kind of people who obeyed when told in a firm tone to do something, Susan Mallery and I became fast friends.

I confess, I don’t know why. We have nothing in common.

Susan is organized. In fact, the first time we talked on the phone she told me, “I could run the world if I had the right staff.” That’s a fair assessment of her abilities.

I am not organized. My office looks like the Federal Repository for cardboard boxes.

Susan is focused, which means she writes like the wind, or at least a good stiff breeze. She writes anywhere from six to nine books a year. She’s finished her hundredth manuscript. She’s written historicals, Silhouette Intimate Moments, Silhouette Special Editions, and big book romance. She’s written for HarperCollins, Berkley, Pocket, Silhouette and HQN. Her current Silhouette Desire, THE ULTIMATE MILLIONAIRE, is on the Waldens Series Romance List a #1, while at the same time, SIZZLING (her ninety-seventh book) is #9 on the Waldens Mass Market Romance List at #9.

Up until I met Susan, the most books I had written in a year was two.

After Susan moved to Houston, my fans vanished. Or at least, she never ran into one. She never saw anyone reading one of my books. She never heard a readers speak well of my books. I know this, because we did many autographings together, and the readers always gushed over her and smiled vaguely at me.

Yet every time I went out in public on my own, I would meet one of her rabid fans. At one conference, this unpublished writer explained she had never read me, but that Susan was her role model and that she even treasured the Women’s Day stories Susan had published.

Worst of all, people who met her would come to me, her friend, and say, “Susan is so witty!” Eventually I was reduced to saying, in a surly tone, “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m witty, too.”

But I did contribute a lot to our friendship.

I made her go out to lunch on the spur of the moment, something which she’d never done before—lack of spontaneity is the downside of being so organized. (We went out to Pappasitos so often we not only always ordered the same thing — a mixed grill of shrimp, chicken and beef over Spanish rice with beans and pineapple pico de gallo — but we exchanged the shrimp for the chicken without saying a word.)

I let her take care of my children. Susan has no children, she was always writing about them, and babysitting my daughters helped with her craft. (It also provided stories that are told and re-told even today, to great hilarity … like the time she told my adolescent girls that they didn’t have to do anything to attract a boy’s attention, all a guy saw when he looked at a girl was a one giant breast.)

Most important, I helped her survive. Susan is a California girl. Not just California, but LA. And she’d lived pretty much her whole life in LA, which made the transition to Houston rocky. Without me, who would have told her to unplug her computer during a lightning storm, or how to survive a tornado? Who would have told her what to do about fire ants and cockroaches (which are endemic in Houston, so you Yankees can just unwrinkle your little noses.) Who would have suggested we do a nine-hundred mile book tour through Texas which included a flat tire, goat sausage, and a hurricane? Who would have taken her to the pig auction?

In return, Susan showed me how to write faster, better, more efficiently, and with greater imagination.

Tomorrow, you’ll meet Susan and learn a little bit about her life, and Wednesday, she’ll share some of her writing wisdom — in a witty way, of course.

Please welcome Susan Mallery.

Wow.  This is so cool.  Squawk Radio.  Since this is probably as close as I’ll ever come to my dream guest spot on Trading Spaces, would you chicks mind if I tack up a few things on the henhouse walls while we yuk it up?  You can return the favor anytime by blogging with my gang at http://www.ridingwiththetopdown.blogspot.com.  Bring us some fuzzy dice or a Christina Dodd bobblehead doll to decorate the pink Caddie. 

Now, you guys could use a splash of purple right about here.

Beautiful.  No plow horse, that.  True Colors turns out to be a race horse, much to his owner’s amazement. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I’m nervous, you know.  These are such cool digs, such cool chicks, and the thing is...I’m not cool.  Never have been.  I’m too damn serious.  The Squawk ladies know this about me, but they invited me to guest blog anyway, so I won’t try too hard to be, you know...cool.  Like the time the cool girls in 8th grade gym class (think Rizzo in Grease, and, yeah, I would have been Sandy if I could carry a tune) got me to kiss one of them.  It was her birthday. “How about a birthday kiss?” She pointed to her cheek, so I gave her a peck.  Heck.  I was a Southern transplant in Massachusetts, where the cool girls do not do birthday kisses.  It took a while to live that one down.

Fast forward to the rest of my life.  My husband is Lakota Sioux.  I’m a white woman sojourning in Indian Country.  Growing up as an Air Force brat, aforementioned Southern girl in New England, full scholarship kid at Mount Holyoke College, I’ve pretty much always been an outsider.  I’m here to tell you, outsiders are treated very well in Indian Country.  The Eagles love me.  And why not?  I’m the perfect straight man for Indian humor.  (Clyde tells me there’s no such thing as Scandinavian humor.  Is this true?) To make a long story exhaustive, I like to write about white women sojourning in Indian Country.

But I really favor hero-driven stories.  So Sioux me.  I especially love a wounded warrior—the man with the battered heart, the tortured soul.  But they have to be human.  Pretty much.  Jesse Brown Wolf in The Night Remembers bordered on beast.  So it is with Nick Red Shield in Ride a Painted Pony.  He’s badly scarred, inside and out. Story starts out, he’s on his way to pay the last installment and pick up the stud of his dreams when he collides with a woman who’s just been thrown into her worst nightmare.  A confirmed loner, Nick is now stuck with a rider who won’t tell him who she is or what she’s running from.  (This scene makes a neat trailer at www.kathleeneagle.com .)

Now, I’m no wounded warrior, but I identify with Nick in so many ways.  He’s serious.  Can’t be funny unless he’s not trying.  Basically shy, but prefers to think of himself as tough.  (He’s man-tough.  I’m woman-tough.  You know the difference.) And definitely not cool.  Deeply wounded, Nick suffers in silence.  I ... do not.  My favorite Christmas story is O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi.” The willingness to sacrifice your dearest treasure is the true spirit of Christmas.  And that’s Nick Red Shield.  It’s what makes him better than me, better than cool, and I really love this guy. 

What is it about these wounded men?  Do we all fantasize about rushing to the battlefield with our little nurse’s kits?  (Yep. Had the cape, too.) Heal him and then bring him to heel.  Who are your favorite wounded heroes? 
Just for inspiration, let me tack up a couple of photos that go nicely with my brand of fiction.  Here’s Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.  Love the movie.  Love the painted pony.  Love Viggo.  Look how tortured he looked in this scene.  Remember the source of his pain?  His mixed-blood character had unknowingly delivered the orders that led to the massacre at Wounded Knee.  The early scenes were filmed in South Dakota, Viggo did his own riding, and he bought one of the Hidalgos.  Love Viggo.

Recently saw Adam Beach in Iwo Jima.  Wonderful film.  I’ve actually been to Iwo Jima. Not many civilians can say that, but I was 10 years old, emergency landing on the way to Japan, story for another day.  But I remember it well, and the movie really touched me.  Adam Beach is wonderful, plays a terribly wounded hero.  I chose this photo for its obvious appeal, but it’s from WindTalkers.  The only scene that compares in Iwo Jima is the swimming scene at the end.  So sexy and pure and poignant.  That would be the picture worth a thousand words on the appeal of the wounded warrior.  But you have to see the movie because that picture must be seen in context.

Okay, finally, this is for Connie.  She won’t admit it—would be like kissing my cheek in public—but she loves my vintage Barbies.  Here are some of the girls dressed for the holidays and riding a painted pony.  When my granddaughter helped get them dressed for the photo, she said, “You’re going to give me all your Barbies someday, right, Nana?  Just before you go to Heaven?”

Sorry, Connie.  They’re spoken for.

(Connie says: I’ll guess I’ll learn to live with my disappointment, Kathy. BUT some lucky members of SQUAWK RADIO won’t be disappointed! Check the blog throughout the day to see which you have won an ARC!)

New Orleans in the spring of 2005 was absolutely beautiful and it cheered me up.  Hurricane predictions came.  As usual, it was dire, seeming to be getting worse as the years went along.  I said a prayer for the Gulf Coast residents; but the city of New Orleans and the state of Florida was top on my list.  A major storm supposedly would devastate New Orleans and Florida had been struck so many times in recent years, I’d lost count.  Certainly, they were weary.  But I thought we’d be spared this year.  Our weather was just too beautiful not to believe that.  Besides, we always dodged the bullet.

On August 14th, I didn’t rest too well.  I was in terrible pain.  I finally awakened at five in the morning and told my mom I was going to Tulane because I might be in labor.  She wanted to call my Uncle Blaise to drive me there or wake my grandmother up, who lived right upstairs in our rental unit so she could go with me.  Or at the least, call the fair committee chairperson.  She’d definitely drive me there.  I refused.  I figured they’d only tell me once again it was false labor and send me back home anyway.  Why bother anyone so early in the morning?

By 9:00am, I was a new mom for a third time to a beautiful little girl named Alegra Christine.  I didn’t see her for six hours.  Her oxygen levels were lower than normal and my legs had “died” on my.  They put them in compression socks for the next 30 hours straight.

On August 18th, Alegra and I were released, blissfully unaware what lie ahead, ignorant of the blessing her early arrival had been, ten days away from fleeing a monster and being separated from our family and eleven away from losing everything familiar to us and the only home I have ever known.  Who knew that God would put in our path two women, their husbands, families and friends who would show me what generosity of spirit and belief in God truly is.

On August 28th, hearing that the hurricane named Katrina was jogging farther and farther west, on a track that would send it careening directly into New Orleans, we headed to Terrell, Texas, 35 miles south of Dallas along I-20, at the invitation of a writer friend of ours.  After a couple days, we were asked to leave.  Her husband is ill and, she said, the kids made her nervous.  The night before we left, we received a telephone call from a lady with a calm and friendly voice telling me she’d heard about me and she and her writing group wanted to adopt my family and I.  She introduced herself as Eloisa James.

I remember how lost I felt but even in my state I knew who Eloisa James was.  Her books were at my house.  Underwater now, but there all the same.  She mentioned other writers whose books I read.  And whose books suffered the same fate as hers. When she asked me what did I want most, I told her towels.  It was the oddest request now that I think about it, but that’s what I told her.  She promised to get me lots of towels and she also promised to call back the next day.  I cried after I spoke to her.  I was grateful that people cared enough to want to adopt us but how could all that we lost ever be replaced?

On August 31st, Zoey turned 9.  But by this time, our home in New Orleans was under water; our city had descended into madness; an inch of my cesarean section cut had opened and our tears flowed like the floodwaters inundating my beautiful city.

I didn’t receive Eloisa’s call the next night because by this time we’d moved.  I knew we’d never hear from the lady I’d requested lots of towels from.  But she called the house where we’d been staying and our new number was given to her.  She called the next day.

Despite her busy schedule, Eloisa coordinated an amazing drive for my family and I.  We received clothes, household items, boxes of books, cds, movies, curtains, pots, tvs, toiletries, gift cards, and money.  We received well-wishes and prayers, cards and poems.

Then, one day, Eloisa called and said a lady contacted her about us.  She’d heard about us through Squawk Radio and felt a connection.  She’d had a baby around the time Alegra was born via C-section and she hadn’t been able to rest thinking of me and my family.  She wanted to buy gifts for my family for Christmas. 

What started out as a few gifts turned into a miracle.  Laura got her husband involved.  From there, the two of them decided not to give each other Christmas presents so that they could give my daughters and my mom and I a Christmas.  Eloisa would call me whenever Laura emailed her about us.  They become our Christmas angels, a modern day gift of the Magi.  We only had our gratitude to give in return.

We felt grateful and blessed.  But there was such a profound sadness in us.  Our friends and family is scattered across the country.  North Louisiana.  Mississippi.  Alabama.  Arkansas.  Texas.  Virginia.  Georgia.  South Carolina.  Illinois.  Some of these people we may never see again.  Some we may not ever know what became of them.  So when my grandmother asked my mom to move yet again from Terrell to be near her and the rest of our family here in Rosenberg, we didn’t hesitate.

We were blessed with a house in March 2006.  The note is affordable, but the taxes aren’t.  Laura asked Eloisa about us and heard how we were still struggling.  I have suffered with depression for years.  Post partum depression worsened my clinical depression and the hurricane and our flight from it added to it.  At times, my depression has been so bad that I’ve attempted things I shouldn’t have.  Again, I thought of those things, this time for money I hoped my family would get to survive from my term policies. For us, on our behalf, because she has a heart of gold, Laura wrote in to the Rachael Ray Show.

From that act, we received another chance.  Best of all, we received the gift of Laura’s, Tim’s, Eloisa’s, and Alessandro’s friendship.  We met and chatted and formed a lifetime bond.  I fell in love with New York City and the vibrancy there that reminds me of New Orleans, but on a much larger scale.

To all of you, I say thank you, God bless you, Happy Holidays.  Peace and joy to you and your family for now and evermore.  You have given me hope and renewal.  The day after I Fed-Exed the check (thanks to Rachel Ray) that would catch up on my house notes and pay it through May of next year, we received a notice of pre-foreclosure.

To all of you, I rededicate this, which was included in Immortal Verses:

Angel On Our Shoulders
Mother, Zoey, Kate, and Allegra

Upon our shoulders, an angel rests.
With golden robes and gossamer wings.
She whispers softly in our ears,
not to worry, she’s taken care of everything.

Upon our shoulders, an angel rests.
Billowy clouds at her fingertips,
to lift her gracefully above us all,
watching over us until we are called home.

Leslie Christine Ferdinand

Copyright ©2006 Leslie Christine Ferdinand