I Love a Parade!

by Joan Kayse

Well, the holiday season starts in just a few short days when we Americans gather with family and friends to give thanks for our blessings, eat like a Porky Pig and...watch a parade!

Let’s face it, for some of us Thanksgiving would not be Thanksgiving without watching the Macy’s parade. I LOVE seeing that original, simplistic Turkey float with the flapping wings lead it off down Broadway in NYC. Iconic in every way, it reminds me of my childhood, of simpler times.

Tom is followed by marching bands, playing show tunes and Christmas songs, all while marching in perfect synchronization. Floats filled with celebrities, balloons in every shape and size being skillfully guided between the skyscrapers. Clowns.


Um, we’ll forget the clowns. My apologies to any clowns out there but…..anybody see the movie It (shiver)Anyway, it all wraps up with Santa and his sleigh ho-ho-hoing and launching the holiday shopping season which effectively started the 4th of July.

My next favorite parade is The Rose Bowl Parade on New Year’s Day. I am FASCINATED with descriptions of these huge floats which have to be a certain percentage of plant material. “Yes, Bob those legs on the giant beetle are covered with wheat chaff the size of a gnat and individually glued on by the Rotary club volunteers using tweezers and puffs of air.”

Too cool.

It’s always inspiring, too, to hear how a small high school from Nowhere, America raised the money needed to come and play in this prestigious event by selling tweezers to the Rotary club. Dedication. Can’t beat it.

Still forgetting the clowns. Really, do ya think Clarabelle was REALLY that happy? Really?

So. What about you? Do you like parades? Which is your favorite? If YOU were a float or a balloon, what type would you look like?Source URL: http://plasticsurgerycelebrities.blogspot.com/search/label/Romance%20Fiction
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The Vision Thing

by Nancy

An article in the newspaper reminded me that tomorrow, July 20, is the 40th anniversary of the moon landing. I remember seeing Neil Armstrong step down onto the surface of our planet's nearest neighbor. Even then, with my scifi geekdom in the budding stage, I thought this was way cool. And what took us there was vision. Imagination. The ability to see beyond "can't" to "could" and then "is." A wonderful book about the power of vision to transform one's life is October Sky by Homer Hickam, which became the moving film Rocket Boys, starring Jake Gillenhaal and Chris Cooper. The New York Times quoted Frank Borman as saying that if the moon landing had been more about vision and less about rocks, the space program might've made great strides in the interim. That's probably debatable, but for me, it was always about the vision thing.


Last night, RWA honored its RITA and GH finalists, writers whose visions touched the hearts of judges. They saw what characters "could" be and do, who mined the human potential for love and turned the ore into stories of triumph over emotional pain. As I write this, a week before you'll read it, I don't know who the winners are (will be? were?). On behalf of all the banditas, however, I congratulate them and the finalists. Not everyone can win, but everyone can sell and ascend the bestseller lists, and I wish all of you the best of luck.

The space program and the awards ceremony each resulted from careful planning and a lot of effort, albeit of different types. Sometimes, though, "stuff happens," as the saying goes, and leads to amazing results.




One example of such serendipity is the career of Greg Mortenson. His memoir, Three Cups of Tea, has been on the New York Times bestseller list for two and a half years. I attribute this success to the vision of positive change the book offers.


An experienced mountaineer, Mortenson set out to climb K2 in the Himalayas as a memorial to his deceased sister. His climb ended prematurely when a companion developed altitude sickness. Mortenson and another man carried him down the mountain, a trek that left Mortenson in rough shape as well. Disoriented and sick, he wandered away from his group and stumbled into a remote village in Pakistan. The people there took him in, fed him, and put him to bed. When he recovered, they showed him around their village. One of the things he saw was a circle of village children in a field, doing their lessons together--outside because they had no school and together because they had no teacher. And he realized building a school for these children would be a much better memorial to his sister than climbing a mountain.

Getting the school built did turn out to be a steep climb. No one with influence had ever heard of him, and raising money proved to be very difficult. But he did succeed in building the school, for girls as well as boys. As the building neared completion, people from a neighboring village arrived to ask if he'd build a school for them, too. One school led to another and another until building schools in that part of the world became his life's work. A failed effort to climb a mountain led to a vision of what could be and a step forward for some of the world's poorest people.

Two hundred thirty-three years ago, a handful of men in Philadelphia dared to challenge the world's greatest empire and most powerful navy. As Abraham Lincoln said at Gettysburg, they "brought forth a new nation, one founded in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." As a society, we don't always live up to that ideal, but it's out there as a model, something for us to strive toward. A vision. Granted, those early patriots had help from France, which never missed a chance to bedevil England in those days, but the vision was theirs, and it was so powerful that a French marquis (Lafayette), a German baron (von Steuben), and a Polish count (Pulaski) sailed over to help lead the army. It remains so powerful that Independence Hall is a World Heritage site and people from all over the planet come to see it.



Lucretia Mott, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and the other women at Seneca Falls, NY, in 1848 had a vision of women controlling their own earnings, making their own decisions as to whether to work outside the home and, most important, helping to choose their nation's leaders. That same vision propelled Martin Luther King's efforts for racial equality and shaped his stirring "I Have a Dream" speech, one of the jewels of American rhetoric. As a result, African Americans count as "whole" people instead of 2/3 in the census, and all Americans of legal age can vote.





Vision doesn't just apply to national affairs but to entertainment and daily life as well. Imagination and science together gave us refrigerators and vacuum cleaners and artificial joints, among other things. An electronics salesman from Germany, Hugo Gernsbeck, was among the first to imagine television. Gernsbeck believed science would produce a utopian world. In his 1920s electronics catalogues, he featured various products and wrote commentaries on their potential. He coined the term "scienti-fiction," which became "science fiction," and helped create fandom via his magazine Amazing Stories. The SFWA Hugo award is named for him. Amazing Stories was most popular among geeky boys, possibly including two kids from Cleveland, Ohio, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. And if you're a true geek, you know that Siegel and Shuster created Superman and spawned a comic book genre beloved by millions around the globe.

Walt Disney looked at the potential for electronics differently, applying it to sound recording and animated movies. He believed in it so strongly that he sold his car to pay for re-recording the sound on his landmark cartoon, Steamboat Willie. A visit to Coney Island, which was then declining in popularity, convinced him there was an appetite for rides and imaginative entertainment, especially if delivered by cheerful staff in a clean environment, and he shared Gernsbeck's belief in technology as a way to deliver a better life. Exhibits in Tomorrowland still explore that possibility.

Those exhibits rely on computer technology, which owes many of its advances to two geeky kids who rose from obscurity to become gurus of the computer world--Bill Gates of Microsoft and Steve Jobs of Apple. We can argue about evil empires and overpriced gadgets, but vision carried both of these men to the top of their field and provides convenience (along with occasional bewilderment and frustration) to millions of people.

Another business icon frequently mocked is Martha Stewart. We the homemaking-challenged don't relate very well to Martha but can still admire her talent. She realized there was a market for ways to make life easier or prettier or tastier and built an empire showing people how to create gorgeous lifestyles. She offered a vision of a nicer, more comfortable life that many people loved. Everyone now marketing homemaking product lines, magazines, and cookbooks is following in Martha's footsteps.

Also mocked despite booming business is romance fiction. If you've watched some of the YouTube videos about romance succeeding in the economic downturn, you may have shared my desire to send a really muscular, well-armed hero or kick-ass heroine to have a word or two with the TV people. But not everyone sees romance as something to apologize for. In 1980, 37 writers shared a vision about romance and came together to form an organization supporting a genre the world at large dissed. And still does. In Houston, Texas, Romance Writers of America was born. And here we all are, as the saying goes, in or trying to be in the business of romance.

Two business owners from Ohio achieved something that changed the way people travel. At Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, Orville and Wilbur Wright doggedly pursued a vision dating back to Da Vinci and beyond, the idea that human beings might fly. One December day in 1903, their glider "slipped the surly bonds of Earth," as RCAF Flight Officer James Gillespie Magee expressed it, for 12 seconds. Aviation was born. Climbing the hill to the Wright Brothers memorial requires fighting high winds all the way. Sand blows from the beach and the dunes, a stinging bombardment at times. The National Park Service site is a great place to fly a kite if the opportunity arises, just FYI. Dealing with that wind demonstrates why the Wrights found Kitty Hawk so suitable for gliders.

North Carolina and Ohio battle over who can legitimately claim to be "first in flight" and "birthplace of aviation," as our license plates state, with Ohioans noting that the flight took place at Kitty Hawk but a lot of the groundwork was done in Dayton, at the Wrights' bicycle shop. There's a replica of the 1903 glider at Kitty Hawk, but the original is in the Smithsonian. I hope to see it between the time I write this and you read it. Pieces of wood and fabric from the original plane went to the moon with the Apollo 11 astronauts.

And that little factoid brings this blog full circle. What visionaries do you admire? Who looked beyond "don't" and "can't" to "could" and then to "is?"

I'm traveling today and hope to be home mid-to-late afternoon. So be please don't think I'm ignoring your comments. I promise I'll respond as soon as I can. I'm giving away a package of books, which I can't name because I don't have them at the time I'm writing this, from RWA to one commenter today.Source URL: http://plasticsurgerycelebrities.blogspot.com/search/label/Romance%20Fiction
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The Golden Rooster Family Reunion

Ah! What’s this? A postmark from St. Poulet? A missive from my sainted maman, no doubt. The poor chicken. She worries so. I am the only of her chicks to pursue life on such a—how shall we say?—grand scale. Dancing along the knife edge of danger is not for everyone, oui? But it must come as a particular shock when held against the lives chosen by that clutch of spectacular dullards with whom I was hatched. So, alors, I shall read her little letter then compose a reply which shall put her pretty head at ease.

My dearest son,

Ah, you see? Dearest? I am her favorite still!

I hope this note finds you well.

If you consider lying in wait on the decks of a private yacht anchored near St. Tropez well, then yes, I am. Indeed.

I know that you are very busy in your international business.

Business which I shall endeavor to wrap up as soon as a certain wily adversary shows himself above deck. Any minute, I expect. Any minute….

Oh yes, yes. I know there are many roads to cross to be as successful as you are but it is a mother’s hope that you will spare some time for your maman and…many of your other relatives.

Ah, my quarry appears! I crouch and….I spring! And karate CHOP and jujitsu KICK and a slash-slash-slash of the…

Un moment. Relatives?

Yes my boy, it is that time once more. Time for our family reunion.

Sacred bleu!

Cousin Delta is hosting it at the old family homestead in St. Poulet, LA. Ah my, the flock has spread far from the coop but all are making an extraordinary effort to attend.

But of course. My ne’er-do-well relations would sooner surrender to the Colonel himself than forsake the chance to importune me for favors, money, liquor and women.

I know you will not disappoint, ma petite.

I shall not, maman! Though it shall try my patience exceedingly to rub feathers with my déclassé brood-mates for even that short time.

It will be June 30th well before the celebration of Independence when all poultry of worth seclude themselves away from the dangers of deep fryers.

You will attend and make this mother proud.

With all my love, my little hatchling,

Maman

And so I begin the long journey back to the broken shell of my youth. To St. Poulet.

Two weeks later…..

A lone vehicle maneuvers its way down SunnySide Up lane, past rows of rice fields to a dilapidated brick mansion.
Bypassing the house, the driver steers down a dirt road to the rear of the property.

Oh, these cursed country two-tracks with their paint-eating gravel! What it is doing to my new coupe!

Aghast, I look at the rusted wire fence beneath spreading oak trees. The din is already more than my nerves can stand.
“Yoohoo! Cousin!”

The squawk makes me cringe. With the fortitude for which I am renowned I step out of the vehicle and (dear Lord) am enveloped in the wings of Cousin Delta.

Normally I have not the slightest objection to being seized to a woman’s breast but merde, ma cousine, a little air? A minor application of pressure at the wing-joint and, ah, sweet oxygen!

“Bonjour, Delta. You have not changed a bit, my dear.” A most unfortunate circumstance, that.

“Why mess with perfection?” she laughs, with a saucy twitch of her considerable tail feathers.

“Why, indeed?”

“You ain’t changed much, either, cuz.” She jabs a wing tip into my chest. “No more meat on your breastbone than when you left.”

“Yes, well, an excellent diet and a dedication to the martial arts—“

“And your coxcomb still does that weird thing. Har! Har!”

My wings fly up to my head and….sacred bleu! Ah, this accursed humidity! I have not suffered this particular indignity since my late and unlamented youth here on the family compound. I have done well to shake the dust of this place from my feed scratchers years ago. Perhaps my impressive physique and accomplishments will distract the flock from this most unfortunate nod to history? A rooster can hope, can he not?

But duty first. “Delta, my beauty. Where is Maman?”

“Oh! Your sister’s here. Yoohoo! Junebug! Over here!”

Ahhh, my sister. Elder by two eggs. The pecking order always took on a new meaning when she was around. “Bonjour, Junebug.”

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so glad you came! When Mama said you might, I almost busted a gut, I was so excited. I can't wait for you to tell me about your world travels.”

“Vraiment? Shall I begin with Paris or Prague?”

“I always dreamed of getting out of this stuffy old coop.”

“Budapest is lovely this time of year.”

“But...well.. .you know, along came Spur.”

Spur? That bow-legged, self-styled, one-rooster Elvis tribute? She married him?

“Now I have Cogburn and Auspice and Augustus (you remember, the twins?) and Octavia, Sebastian and Putt Putt to chase around."

Good heavens.

*sigh* "I don't suppose I'll ever get off the farm now..." *sniff*

Zut alors! Not to be uncharitable but have you considered keeping your drumsticks together once in a while? I pat her wing sympathetically and scan the yard for the nearest exit. Or at least something shiny. Junebug’s attention span is not her most formidable trait.

Suddenly a long silver limo pulls up outside the hen house. The driver, complete in uniform hurries around to open the door, and who should step out, but cousin Delilah, the madame of the best little henhouse in Texas, dressed in her Coco Channel suit, dark glasses and big hat, she kisses her driver and joins us.

"Hey, y'all, it's been ages since I've been back to see y'all! Hey Junebug, how're all those little chicks? And Delta, lovely as evah!"

Delilah lifts one brow, shakes her tail feathers and saunters toward me...

"Well, well, well, I do declare, if it isn't the Golden One himself.”

I incline my coxcomb graciously. I have a small fondness for Delilah as her hen house is the site of some of the—how to put it delicately—more memorable incidents in an otherwise unremarkable youth. “In the flesh, madame.”

“So, what have you been up to these days, ya old fake frenchie you!"

Fake frenchie, indeed! It seems my original plan—doing my familial duty with as much haste as decent manners allow—is a sound one. But as the finest tail feathers in the entire parish fall under Delilah’s purview, I muster the strength to do the pretty. “Nothing of note,” I say. “But I feel certain you’ve been leading life a merry chase.” She brays out that rough, two-packs-a-day laugh of hers.

“Ain’t I just! I got this new girl—prime bit of thigh-meat, see? Lord, she’s a pistol…”

I lean in, intrigued for the first time all day, but then a dilapidated yellow bus rolls into the yard. It sputters to a stop, belching exhaust fumes from its rear. The antiquated bus driver down the steps and holds out a hand to an elderly hen.

"Git yer cotton-pickin' paw offen me, you smarmy fella," she snarls, leaping to the ground with surprising grace for one so ancient.

I freeze. I am terrified of Great Granny Henster, and rooster enough to admit it. GG is tiny, fierce and extraordinarily rude. She has been, in the lamentable past, particularly cruel about my coxcomb situation. I remain still and pray her eyesight has faded with time.

Immediately GG whirls around and opens the luggage facility beneath the bus.

"Where's my stuff," she demands. "I need my Depends, dammit! I need 'em right now!"

Oh. Mon Dieu.

A sporty Italian roadster roars up the drive to the lair, pulling in behind the school bus. A svelte hen steps out, unwrapping the Hermes scarf and tips down her elegant designer sunglasses.

"Where is that reprobate brother of mine?" Dominique D'Or drawls. "I've flown in from Paris for this, he better have done what he SAID he was going to do."

Pardone? I implied I would perform some…service? For my poseur of a soeur? Ridicule!

She scans the various family members scattered about.

"Interesting digs big brother's found, and such an interesting group of people to attach himself too. Oh, Lord, he invited GG. How does she get around in that bus?"

Dominique thinks I called this meeting? Heavens. She’s delusional. Either that or she’s been drinking breakfast again.

One of the hired cockerels hurries over and asks after her luggage.

"Well, aren't you johnny on the spot," she says, with a throaty laugh. "Of course you can carry my bags. You can polish my eggs too, rrrrrrrrowwww!"

Rrrrrrowwww? Perhaps lunch was of the liquid variety as well.
Leaving the roosterling staring after her, she struts up to the front of the coop and calls, "GOLDIE! Come say hello!"

Seeing no better choice, I trudge after her. S’il vous plait, I pray to whatever diety will have me. Please let it be brief. And if it cannot be brief, at least let it be amusing. I march forward to meet my fate, whatever—or whomever—it may entail….Source URL: http://plasticsurgerycelebrities.blogspot.com/search/label/Romance%20Fiction
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A View of The Lair Through a Cabana Boy's Eyes

posted by Joanie T

The place was a mess.

Not a surprise since his employers had held another one of their launch parties, Ricco thought, as he lifted another batch of margharita glasses from the industrial dishwasher. He set them down on the far end of the bar, picked up his Egyptian linen cloth and began polishing. The Banditas were very particular about spots.

Morning duty was a mixed blessing really. Lots to get in order; sweeping up debris, blender checks, chandelier repair. All work and little fun. He knew there was lots of exciting stuff going on in The Lair. Had to be with these creative types. Their imaginations are limitless and a little scary. He'd seen the looks on the party event staff's faces; befuddled, euphoric and occasional out right shock. Yep, those crews had the hardest job. Keeping the Banditas and their Buddies well stocked with an endless variety of alchoholic concoctions was a challenging task. Not to mention snacks, music, dancing lessons. Those conga lines were killers.

Maybe he should have taken that job at the post office.

A smile tugged at his lips. Nah, that would have been the polar opposite of this job. Day in day out sorting of envelopes vs. constant partying and never knowing what would happen next, which Bandita would require personal assistance. To be called by one of the Banditas? THAT was a coveted job.

Ricco glanced down from the bar situated on the mezzanine level of The Lair. He’d been told when hired by that fiery red headed Bandita JoMama that this was a club for a sedate, demure ladies group.

Hah!


There was more to it than that and his suspicions were being proven everyday. He was a second level cabana boy. He supposed he should be offended by being called a boy but when that Cassondra said it—purred it—he didn’t mind…even when she sashayed around all armed and ready. He knew weapons and that Bandita was lethal.


The required uniform…if black pirate pants and loose cotton shirts could be called that…and the daily mandatory workouts supervised by the Bandita known cryptically as AC were a bit much but hey, he liked keeping in shape.

He barely kept the Waterford flute in his hands from crashing to the floor at the loud crack coming from the exercise room. Ok, so that crop was concerning.


Nope, the Lair was definitely not your average club. For one thing it spread out in multi levels deep into the earth, up a mountain and he suspected had secret tunnels to the ocean. You had to be high level among the crews to descend into the depths. He swept his gaze over the gauze draped party room below. Oh, yeah, he wanted to advance.



Several of the third level guys were sweeping the floor which was a challenge as there were still Banditas and BB’s recovering from the last launch party for “Dark and Deadly.”
Ricco laughed out loud. Yeah, that about summed it up the world of The Lair.

The central floor area had a handful of silk covered chase lounges in a rainbow of colors. He recognized Duchess Hotdayum and Duchesse Snorkdom from the uninhibited way they were sprawled on the furniture with their pinkies crooked out. No etiquette involved there rather it was their trademark “C’mere cabana boy” signal. He smiled to himself. He’d been privileged to that before.

In the far corner that tall guy, Sven was working on his eighteenth massage. Poor guy looked exhausted but Ricco didn’t miss the heat in his eyes when he looked at that Aussie Christine. Even from up here, he could hear her murmur something about a "Wicked Little Game." It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Sven's frequent “Da’s” didn't just mean "Yes, Mme."

Ricco heard a rumble of thunder and cast a wary look to the balcony suspended in the air by what looked like clouds. He’d never figured how they did that but he wasn’t about to ask the goddess who was stretched out on it—on a cloud? This Bandita meant business with a capital B. He made a hasty check of the sangria, breathing a sigh of relief when he found the cabinet well stocked with her favored tropical blend. A shiver of excitement shot down his spine when he found her studying him with those midnight blue eyes. Not always good to gain her attention, not with those mammoth gladiators guarding her like Ft. Knox gold.

Caught in her gaze, he almost missed the one named Demetrius lifting his shield in silent salute to the Duchesse. The subtle nod they exchanged made his brows raise.

“Are you ready to par-tay?”

Ricco’s attention snapped back the hallway. No Hank Williams Jr. but a trio of Banditas rushing into the bar. Susan, Beth and Kirsten. Sweet, angelic smiles…and a glint in their eyes that set his nerves on edge.

“Plenty of wine, strawberries, mangos for the margaritas?” This from the one called Tawny or “Blaze” as she was nicknamed sauntering in behind them. Ricco cleared his throat at the sultry look she sent him, almost losing another glass.


“Don’t forget the appetizers,” called the Texan Bandita Suz. Ricco narrowed his eyes. Was that a rope she was twirling? Her avid gaze swept over him. His mouth went dry.




“Mimosas,” trilled Kate as she swept by with her witchy friend. “Don’t forget the mimosas. And appletini's. My guest needs appletinis!”

Ricco’s eyes widened at the woman riding a small dragon swooping in from the doorway. “Diet Coke for me,” called Nancy. She waved at Trish who’d just driven in with another multi-contracted deal with Donna and Christie. Those two called most of the cabana boys “Duke.” Strange.

The boys below were scurrying to finish the clean up directed by a tall, lithe Bandita with a brilliant smile and a gorgeous Chico’s jacket. She glared up at the goddess. “Don’t even think about it.”

Man, they were all here. Anna with those hockey hunks which he could take in a minute if it weren’t for those sticks, the other Anna from Oz who could barely carry all her awards but was still calling for a scotch on the rocks and cherry ripes and Tim Tams. Dang, the shipment of those hadn't arrived yet.

He was jotting down a note to rememdy that when a sultry voice asked, “Got anything, cold?”
Ricco raised his head at the murmured voice to stare at the elusive KJ. “I’ve just arrived from an expedition and..” She raked him with her hot gaze. “I’m thirsty.”

Ricco gulped.

“I’ve got turtles!” chirped frequent guest PJ.

“Eat ‘em fast,” said the dude in BDU’s as he checked the perimeter. “Me and my boy gotta get the place fastened down.”

He shook his head at the rooster following the guy around with a rucksack strapped to his back.

A flash of light caught Ricco in the eye as more guests began to arrive. It was a never ending party in this place, he mused as he broke out more ice. No other job like it.

“Cabana boy?”

He looked down at the Duchesse who crooked her finger at him.

Ricco grinned. Nope, no other job like it in the world.

While Ricco is busy…er, at his job. Who else is arriving today for the party? Any other cabana boys out there?
Source URL: http://plasticsurgerycelebrities.blogspot.com/search/label/Romance%20Fiction
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Garden Party

I'm going to say right up front that I do not have a green thumb. I admire people who do. I applaud their devotion and knowledge to all things flora and fauna but can't usually do a lick of good with more than your standard, hardy variety of 6 pack annuals.



Until this year.






Last year I had a row of boxwood shrubs taken up from the front of my house. They were 18 years old, woody and UGLY. Plus one had already gone to shrub heaven and ...well, it just didn't look good.


Once they were gone, I enlisted the aide of my BFF who, like a columbine seeking shade, knows her way around a landscape. She is to gardens what Julia Child was to French cookery. She thought and she suggested and together we went out to purchase just the right beginner plants/shrubs.


Most everything survived their first year under my care: The lilacs, the azaeleas, the barberry and the Japanese Heller holly. The lirope and the spira variety called "Lil Henry". The Japanese holly struggled the most and when I asked my BFF her advice she asked "Have you been deep watering"? "Is that anything like deep POV?" I asked.


She gave me A Look.


Um. "Doesn't the water I pour at the bottom take care of watering?"


"No. You use your hose to get to the collateral root system."


"What hose?" I asked.


It took me 10 minutes to revive her.


Fortunately, (or maybe my friend did a survival dance to the garden gods) my shrubs and things survived to this spring. And OMG....they are beautiful! Flowering lilacs, pink and purple azaelas, knockout rosebushes in varying shades of pink. I've accented with purple petunias and white begonias and filled my porch pots with three colors of geraniums and pink hibiscus.



It's beautiful if I do say so myself. It's ignited a desire to do more and learn more. Oh, I'll never get the artistry of borders and formal gardens though I long to have the natural groupings of flowers like they have in Ireland (I think in Ireland the land just calls to the different varieties and they plant themselves :-). It's taken a lot of restraint on my part not to plant my whole YARD in flowers.


All this horticultural revelation got me to thinking about The Lair, the Banditas and the BB's. We all bring our own special and unique beauty to the garden of this community. Every flower has a meaning or correlation to some attribute. Here are some of the ones I've thought about:

Hydrangea



This flowering shrub is a symbol of perseverance. Now this attribute can be attributed to ALL of us but I thought of Suz when I was looking it up. Beautiful and strong and determined, she took a step outside the box with Lacy Morgan and has gotten the attention of contests, agents and editors.


Larkspur.


Reminds me of Kristen. It means beautiful spirit and hers certainly shines through in all she says and does. (Even her very first headstand with her yoga)


Geranium, the comfort flower.



Jo or JoMama as we call her. She's always there with an encouraging word, a hug and a pat on the back. And the occasional "don't mess with my Bandita" fervor that helps kick the doldrums right out of ya.


Sweetpea.




The shy flower. I matched this one up with Susan. Despite her cool rapper name (Smoov) she professes to be the shy one among us. (Psst...I'm not totally sold on that. We'll see in the bar in DC in July)


Stargazer Lily.


The ambition flower. This one is our own Kate. Quiet, demure, yet exotic and beautiful this Bandita is on her way. Featured in her NYT debut book, HOMICIDE IN HARDCOVER Kate is soaring to the top in more ways than one.

And then there is me. Now, my favorite overall flower is the tulip but I have been called spirited before so the flower that symbolizes that characteristic is the Freesia.









The Pink Rose. Friendship. Our BB's and our lurkers, our guests and our new visitors. Here's a pink rose for each and everyone of you!



Demetrius has just spread a blanket on the soft, green grass. Have a seat, enjoy the picnic basket Marcus brought and sip a cabana boy....er, I mean some wine and contemplate the garden of The Lair. What other flowers do you see? Which Bandita do they represent? Why? What type of flower would you be and where would you be planted? What is attracted to you? Bees? Butterflies? Sven?





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Kristan Higgins-Too Good to Be True

The Banditas are thrilled to welcome Kristan Higgins back to the Lair!

How are you doing Kristan?

Oh, I'm fine, Joan! Very happy to be back with the Banditas!

I am such a fan of your books. Tell us, what spurred you to write such wonderful, witty stories?

I take it we're saving the hardball questions for later...Glad you like them...and thanks for calling them wonderful and witty. I think the reason I chose to write my particular style of rom-com was, in a nutshell, that's what I liked to read. There's something really wonderful about reading a book with a big, memorable love story and thinking that's the kind of thing that could happen to you. Sure, it's fun to picture us being a billionaire or an Oscar winner or shagging...er, dating an NFL superstar...I like to read that type too, for a nice bit of escapism. But I felt that us normal gals deserved a big love story, too.

Many of us do write what we love which is sometimes the harder road to take. What are your thoughts on writing to the market?

Welp, let's see...I don't know. Just after I sold my first book, a first-person romantic comedy, I learned that first person was a cardinal sin and romantic comedy was dead. My beloved publisher has offered me contracts for a total of six ro-cos (all in first person, mind you), so I don't really know what to say about the market. We writer folk have to keep in mind that what's in the bookstores now was bought two or more years ago. I think writers have to write what they're good at, what speaks to them, what they can best convey. And what they love, because if you don't love your story, it's gonna show.

Ok, I’m going to step off the beaten writer’s path for your next question. Some of the Banditas {looks quizzically around the Lair} are crazy for “Dancing with the Stars”. Which dance are you most like?

Passe doble, baby! Remember that movie, Strictly Ballroom? Gawd, I loved that flick! Also, the one with Antonio Banderas...well, anything with Antonio Banderas. The truth is, I don't watch Dancin' with the Stars regularly, but Joan emailed me the other night, saying she was rooting for Gilles, and I clicked on it. Gilles just happened to be dancing, and I froze, quivering with lust. Am now considering having his name tattooed somewhere on my person.


LOL. I liked Antonio Banderas as “Puss…in boots” 

So aside from “I Heart Gilles”, what type of tattoo would you get, if….yanno….you wanted one. Would you get one of Buttercup? 


I've thought about getting an NY tattoo in honor of my beloved Yankees...or maybe just "2" for dear Derek Jeter, bless his brawny heart. But the truth is, having something permanently stained into my skin...I don't think I can do it. Say I got a butterfly...what would that poor bug look like in 40 years, all wrinkly and stretched out? So I'll have to pass. Sorry, Derek.

My favorite Shrek moment...some gorgeous creature says to Puss, "Are you Shrek?" and he looks up from licking himself and says, "I could be." I just about fell out of my chair on that one.

Hmmmm….Derek Jeter. Not to shabby on the hero image side.

To steer this back to the writing life, what things besides cheering on the Yankees and watching animated movies helps to stir the creative juices?

I like to visit the settings of my books. Taking walks helps me a lot, as does driving in the car. But the truth is that writing books is hard! Most of my work is churned out in front of the computer. There's no muse floating down with a cappuccino and whispering advice. Unfortunately. This is the toughest job I've ever had. And the best!

Our guests get many questions so how about we turn the tables. What would you, Kristan Higgins like to ask the Banditas and BB’s?

My question for you lovely Banditas is...What makes a great story for you? Do you like the unexpected or boundary-pushing books, or are you more satisfied with the perfect delivery of a "classic" type of story? Is is the characters or the set-up? What are some books that just struck you as damn near perfect?

Kristan will be selecting one lucky commenter to win an autographed copy of her latest HQN title "Too Good to be True"




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