Jane's Blog - Page 86 of 93 - Jane Porter | New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

Need My Wheaties

March 28, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

The new puppy has definitely been challenging. She just returned home from the puppy hospital having had eye surgery today for her cherry eye that turned into a bleeding eye-sore. The brown patch over one eye was cute. The red patch over the right eye less adorable. The neighborhood children stopped coming over to see the new addition to our family…

Boyfriend Ty has started his own surf school and website (and business) formally launched last week. The three weeks of endless rain in Hawaii isn’t helping tourism, or visitors desire to surf, but Ty’s still been busy with almost daily private lessons on the North Shore. His website is cool (www.tygurneysurfschool.com) and has ahem, a couple pictures of me and my kids surfing. I think it’s awesome he’s doing this–he really is an incredible surf instructor–and the only drawback is that I’m finding his business more interesting than mine. But that’s changing as my book is due now in just two weeks…

Speaking of the deadline, I’m still doggedly trying to write despite my kids (and puppy) taking turns staying home sick, which means I’m getting maybe two solid hours of work done a day right now, or six interrupted hours, but it’s something. (This is deja vue, isn’t it?)

Luckily I’m enjoying the writing when I’m writing because I keep having great little discoveries at the keyboard. The hero is into extreme sports–all of them, especially heliskiing. (That’s how he was injured.) Heroine turns out to be an ex-New York socialite. Even though he’s the wounded one, she’s got twice the baggage he does. And that’s not even the juicy stuff, because of course there’s juicy stuff in my Harlequin Presents.

Happily, contract with Warner is pretty much signed, sealed and delivered. They’ve offered me a two book deal and everything I hoped, as the money is solid and the two novels are both stories I really want to write. The first will be out in 2007 followed by the second in 2008, as the books are linked and in the theme of the Mommy Wars. Best of all? The books are set right here in Bellevue (Yarrow Point, Clyde Hill and Medina) Washington so now all my neighbors will think I’m writing about them.

And maybe I am.

Or not.

And finally, I’m still doing promo for this summer’s book, Flirting with Forty, which isn’t even out yet but is starting to get some serious buzz. On the fun side, it’s being shopped around Hollywood and maybe no one will bite, but it’s cool hearing who is getting a copy and which actresses with film production companies are reading it.

Flirting with Forty is also going to be reviewed in some great women’s magazines this summer, and last but not least, I found out this morning that Redbook Magazine is making Flirting with Forty their Hot Summer Read for 2006, excerpting the novel in the June, July and August issue and ending the August excerpt on a cliffhanger so folks will (hopefully) have to go buy the book to find out what happens to our plucky heroine Jackie.

And so that’s what I’m doing this week. And no, it’s not earth shattering but put it all together and I need some some serious Wheaties.

It’s either that or another tablespoon of nonni juice which tastes as disgusting as it smells but Hawaiians swear by it–and who am I to mess with Hawaii? Hawaii has given me some serious mojo.

Earth Mother I Am Not

March 25, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I am not the mother of the year, nor will I ever be the pet mother of the year. In fact, I sometimes feel like one of the pictures my son Ty draws of aliens with a thousand eyes. I’m surprisingly comfortable with the idea that I could be an alien because on my planet back home we don’t have this guilt earthling mothers carry with them, or this whole good mother bad mother complex. But maybe I am an earthling because I am struggling with the good mother bad mother complex. And I’m not even talking about my kids. But the new puppy dog.

The puppy has been a lot of work. We’ve seen the vet twice, she’s already been on three different prescriptions (drops for eyes, ointment for belly and oral antibiotic). She’s had the runs for the past two days so I’m making her rice and cleaning up the floor. Her cherry eye is back and she’s still chewing on anyone she can which makes for shreiking children as they jump from furniture to furniture to outrun the mad pup.

And I, I…just want to go to bed.

A number of friends this week have said, ‘if a puppy is this much work, can you imagine having a baby?’ And right now, nooooooo.

However, I’m tempted to weigh the pros and cons with puppy versus human baby (alien babies are just kept in little lucite boxes, far easier to raise babies on my planet than here but that’s another post).

Biting- babies don’t bite until closer to a year; puppies bite right away for up to a year. Score 1 for babies.

Potty training – babies don’t get it until they’re two or three, puppies start getting it as early as 7 or 8 weeks. Score 1 for puppies.

Time consuming – babies and puppies both cry and demand attention. Babies sleep longer than puppies which would be a point in favor of babies, but puppies can sleep through a night far better than babies so a point to puppies.

Time away – demanding puppies can be put in a crate (I’m wishing I had one about now) and babies can well…not be put in crates. Babies require a babysitter which would appear to give the point to puppies, but wait–sick puppies can’t be crated and they need a babysitter, too, so a point to babies as it’s more acceptable to hire a babysitter for a night out than a puppysitter for a Saturday night…

The runs – point to babies. They wear diapers. Puppies, sadly, do not.

Giving medicine – babies don’t have sharp nails or razor-like milk teeth, they’re gummy. If you’ve got to give them medicine, they take it. Another point to babies.

Jumping on furniture – babies don’t generally jump up on furniture until around 10 months. Puppies…way earlier, so the point would go to babies, but when you think about falling off furniture, puppies generally fair better than babies at falling so I call this one a draw.

Gifts – everyone’s excited when you have a new baby and people send gifts. Everyone is excited for five minutes when you get a puppy and no one sends gifts. Score baby.

Thank yous – no one sends gifts for puppies, people send gifts for babies, so when you’ve a new baby and are sleep deprived and exhausted and depressed you’re also confronted by a pile of thank you notes. Score for puppies. Thank you notes are time consuming on a good day, never mind during postpartum blues.

So looking at the two columns, and the amount of work entailed, I’m thinking I’ll just zip back to my planet far away in a distant galaxy. It’s a lot easier being an alien than an earth mother.

Old Bess

March 23, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

This has been a week of doctor’s appointments: three for me, two for the new puppy and one for my youngest son. I was supposed to have another tomorrow and then on Monday both boys see the dentist. I am canceling tomorrow’s appointment. It’s way too many doctors in one week. And even though I got to keep my clothes on for several (they were consults with specialists) I am still feeling vulnerable. And defensive.

If one more medical professional refers to me and says in the same breath, ‘older’, ‘declining’, and ‘at your age’, I will kick him. I may not be twenty, but I am not older, declining, or at your age. And for the doctor on Monday and Tuesday who made me feel like an old horse with nothing ahead of her but the glue factory—watch it, buster. I might not be able to kick my leg as high as I once did, but I can still kick hard. I was a dancer once upon a time. And I lift weights.

Hmph. Old Bess, indeed.

My legal name is Elizabeth Jane so I could become Betsy Jane, or…Bess…but not Old Bess. The eye doctor today modified by contact prescription but said I don’t need reading glasses (yet). The doctor on Tuesday was greatly surprised by the excellent test results of some blood work. Cholesterol’s good. Blood pressure’s low. Everything’s wonderful. Except for my mood.

I am not old. Forty is not old. And I’m not even forty anyway. I’m…younger. Well, in my own universe I am and that’s what matters. Get rid of all the chronological age crap and base your true age on how you feel and what you’re able to do.

And I’m able to kick a lot of doctors butts. So there. Take that. And can you move that box so I don’t fall and break a hip.

Thank you, sonny. I appreciate that.

New Baby

March 22, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I have a new baby and her name is Abi. She’s gorgeous and chunky and covered in wrinkles. And she’s keeping me really busy.

Fat Abi is an eleven week old English bulldog with a big block head and loose folds of skin everywhere and a fierce desire to chew. And chew. And chew. Especially metal. Anything metal. Or hard and round. Or flat and rubbery. Or thin and papery. Or covered in skin. Human skin.

She’s very sweet and happy. As long as you don’t scold her for biting down hard. Or peeing where she shouldn’t. And then she looks at you from the corner of her eye and as my older son says, ‘That’s her devil look.’ And it’s true. Sweet fat Abi with her rolie polie self doesn’t like to be corrected. And if you do scold her, or hold her muzzle when she’s biting too hard, she gives you that side glance that says, ‘I don’t have to listen to you.’ It’s her wicked face and the problem is–excuse me, I have to pull her off my computer cords, I shall be right back–her wicked face, with her wicked side look, in that white wrinkly face with her brown patch over her one eye–is so cute, and so funny (half pig, half bat-like) that she looks–excuse me, let me pull her off my modem cord–

Cute.

Exhale. Big breath. Hold. Release.

And she’s a lot of work.

The boys love her. To bits. Except the younger son panics when she bites really hard. And yet he lies down on the carpet, arms at his sides, face up, staring at the ceiling. He lies there as an offering. And I tell him, ‘Ty, that’s only encouraging her to bite your (unprotected) face,’ but he says, ‘I want her to see me.’

And I think, oh, honey, she does.

She sees you the way she sees kibbles and bits. Yum, yum, yum.

And so–as I pull Abi off my printer cord–she keeps me busy and gives me yet one more reason to be distracted from my writing, at a time I shouldn’t be distracted as I’ve a book due in just weeks and I’m well, still on chapter one. And just as Warner offers me a new two book contract–those details soon, I promise, but I want to see the ink dry on the contract before I share. Oops. Excuse me while I chase fat Abi down the hall. She has my wallet, and some cash, in her mouth.

Literary Lions

March 11, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I hurt. Not mentally, it’s more of a bruised ego thing, as well as a shin, arm and shoulder thing, too. You see I fell down the stairs tonight at a big event. In front of everyone. Just when I was feeling so literary.

Back up–set scene, Bellevue’s big downtown library, elegant evening fundraiser honoring corporate sponsors and outstanding authors (yes, I was invited, and it might have been a fluke, especially after I tumbled down their grand cement staircase). I arrived alone and was nervous. No one knows I’m nervous because I wear so much make up and my hair is shiny and straight but I took my special badge, the one with the big black ribbon that reads ‘AUTHOR’ in fancy gold letters and headed up the staircase to find a glass of wine and mingle as instructed.

Bellevue’s big regional library has a prominent staircase with a landing in the middle. Halfway up the second flight, I glance above me, see all the elegant people in their black tie and formal wear, think to myself, I shouldn’t have worn brown, shouldn’t have come alone, should have brought Joan as she offered to come, especially as I feel self-conscious wearing my big black author ribbon.

And that’s when it happened. BAM. Blaaaah. Ooooof. Although it actually happened much faster than that. More like Bam, Bla, Uf. And because I was carrying my camera, I couldn’t let it drop so I used my shin and forearm to take the brunt of the fall. Super smart move. Shins, elbows and forearms are so well padded.

An elderly couple to my left rushed to my side, lifted me to my feet, and supported me the rest of the way up the staircase.

It was one of my finer moments, I can you tell that.

And I can also tell you this: I wished I was wearing black, not brown. I wished I had brought someone with me so elderly people didn’t have to support me up the stairs. AND I wished, oh how I wished, I wasn’t wearing my big black ribbon with the gold letters AUTHOR. Because standing red-faced and stiff (how does one stiffen up that fast? Tell me it’s shock, not age) at the top of the stairs I really felt like a Literary Lion.

No, make that a dinosaur.

Waiting for the Other Shoe…

March 10, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

To drop.

Does anyone else ever do that? Things are good, almost too good, and so you brace yourself, mutter worries and denials, as though the gods were leaning over their fluffy pink clouds waiting to see who just might be too happy? And who, they, the bored, petty vengeful gods must smash?

One of my least favorite Mark Twain stories–I think the collection is The Devil’s Racetrack–comes from late in his life, after the death of his wife and beloved daughter Susie, and Twain paints God as a petty angry God. One that toys with us, and then stomps on us, like ants. I love Twain’s writing and yet found this story, and the premise, distressing.

Does God really have so little to do that he waits for the stray ant only to torture it? I think not. And yet, narcissistic me, worries that a streak of good fortune–a couple weeks of smooth sailing equals–deserves…what? Ruin? Punishment? Destruction?

That’s pretty lame.

I swear, I really shouldn’t say this stuff here, but I’m pretty lame. I read self help books. I do. Two years ago I devoured The Four Agreements. (best book I’ve read in years.) At thirteen I thought Norman Vincent Peale was fabulous. I remember The Road Less Traveled from my early UCLA days. If it says something meaningful, and attempts to adjust my attitude, I probably have it on my bookshelf.

I’m Okay, You’re Okay. Yep. Used copy. Power of Positive Thinking. It’s there, right next to Why Men Love Bitches. (I kid you not.) Next to Don’t Call That Man. (I’m totally serious.) Next to Dianetics. (yes, bought it in Canada at a used book store with my friends Barb and Carla). Next to Thomas Merton’s No Man Is an Island next to C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters next to Getting Over Getting Mad. And if I squint, Getting Over Getting Mad is very close to getting laid. That’s because the anger book is next to my Kama Sutra book and now you know everything there is to know about me.

And now, my friends, the shoe can drop.

Playing It Cool

March 7, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I know I’ve touched on this before, but one of the hardest things a writer has to deal with, is the waiting. It takes months–sometimes years–to write a book and it’s sent off and then you wait. And if you’re lucky, it gets a second and a third read, and hopefully recommended to the senior editor and then even more hopefully, an offer is made.

It can take months for an unpublished author to hear back. At Harlequin, many aspiring writers have waited up to two years to get word on a manuscript. Published authors cross their fingers that they (author and agent) will get a quick response. I’m waiting to hear from Warner right now on my proposal and it’s three weeks.

Three weeks is nothing compared to the days I waited a year on projects titled For The Love of Ben (unbought) and All-Around Cowboy (unbought). But still, waiting any length of time is hard. It does odd things to the mind. Plays games, little head games that undermines the confidence so I’ve learned to fight back to keep fear in check.

How?

#1 Honest Expectations

When I first mail a project off, whether its a proposal, or an entire manuscript, I try to step back and be honest about my expectations. Of course I want a million dollar contract. Of course I want to be the next media darling. Is it realistic? Noooo. But a girl can hope. And hoping is okay, provided I understand this is a business and there’s a big difference between hoping for a realistic outcome and hoping for the ridiculous. This leads me to point number two…

#2 Check Ego At the Door

Bottom line for me, do I want to be published? Do I want to see this particular story in print? Do I want it in print anytime soon? If so, then don’t let ego get in the way of a decent contract. Yes, I’d like to earn more money on the next book. Yes, I want a bigger print run. But at what cost? Are my battles ones I really, truly care about, or are they ego driven?

#3 Have Clear Goals

Earning more money is definitely a goal, but it’s not a clear enough goal to motivate me. I’m better motivated by the creative process, the quality of a finished product, the passion an editorial team brings to a project. I want and need to pay bills with my writing, but I love working with people that get me, my voice, and my stories. Would I just jump ship to get more cash? No. But if someone gave me more creative freedom and a bigger paycheck…? Now that’s interesting.

#4 Grow a Career

I like the connectedness of things, the relation of one person to another, the evolution of one’s style, the way one story builds on the next. What matters to me in terms of career building is developing a natural, and interesting, career, one that honors readers, keeps them part of the literary circle. I would hope that any reader that picks up Frog Prince would also enjoy Flirting with Forty because its my voice and the characters are ones you could hopefully relate to, and the themes in my books are ones the reader cares about. I would want the same reader to find this the case with my third book…as well as future novels. The reader is my audience. The reader is who I write for. The reader is respected.

And when the wait grows long to hear back from my editor, I step away from the panic button and do a little (or a lot) of assessment and reflection and shift whatever gears I must to a) play it cool, and b) remain objective. As much as I believe in my own work, I am not the one shelling out money for the book. The first person to do so is the publisher and the next is the reader at the bookstore. I owe both the very best. So as I wait, I move from wildly excited and hopeful to a more pragmatic mindset.

This is business. And I’ll do what I must to succeed in this business. Starting with writing the very best story I can and ending with working with the right people–people who love books as much as I do.

And I mean it. Even if my ego is chanting ‘more, more, more’ and dancing like the devil on the dinner table.

My ego might be entertaining, but my ego will not nurture a career.

Mice Are Nice

March 4, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m dating Doctor Doolittle. And it’s a challenge.

Boyfriend Ty is great with kids and animals. If you’ve got a youngster that wants to learn to surf–Ty’s your instructor. And if you’ve a mouse in your house, it will live there forever.

It will be named. And fed. And talked to. And encouraged. Even if it creeps into your girlfriend’s luggage, and poops in her bras and underwear.

I really try not to be judgemental, or overly controlling despite my control freak nature. I try to back off and support others, especially when they feel strongly about something.

But a mouse in my house? And yes, it’s Ty’s house, too, and yes, he lives there alone for weeks at a time when I’m on the mainland and he needs company and he misses his dogs, but can we get a mouse that lives in a cage? That has toys of its own and a special place to poop other than on top of my lingerie?

This weekend while I’ve been in Hawaii Ty and I visited the Hawaii Humane Shelter a couple of times to look at pets needing adopting. Most of the dogs in need of a home are pit bulls, or pit bull mixes and they unnerve me.

But at the shelter there was a cat that a lady was calling a ‘Plain Jane’, and the cat’s name is Callie and apparently her owners returned to the Mainland. Without her. Callie was insecure but sweet, a gentle gray striped cat with lots of white fur and big gray green eyes in a pretty white face. And I think she’d be good for the Hawaii house.

I think she’d sit on the back of the couch and look out the window and wait for Ty to come home from surfing.

And I think she’d be a great big sister for the mouse. The mouse, Gouda, spent most of last night in my carry on bag eating my remaining Hershey’s kisses and I kept tossing and turning and blurting in the dark, ‘Gouda, go away!’ and ‘Gouda, get out of my things!’

Ty’s only comment this morning was that chocolate isn’t good for mice.

Like I’ve been forcing Gouda to eat my kisses.

Like I enjoy stepping around mice poop on *my* side of the bed.

Gouda really could use some company, too. Someone to keep her from being lonely during the day while Ty’s at work.

And I’ve the perfect friend for her. Gouda, meet your new sister Callie. And Callie, be gentle with little Gouda. Remember, mice are nice.

Just not in my underwear drawer.

Reality Sucks

February 28, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m not talking about my reality for a change. You can all relax. No deep painful personal confessions from me today, just a little commentary on reality tv and what I’ve recently seen.

I don’t watch lots of tv, but I always have a couple favorites, a Tuesday night show, or a Sunday evening program, something I can generally watch with the kids, and something that allows me to root for folks. Survivor is too cut throat for me and far more suitable for the Bombshell heroine than the Presents girl, anyway. No, I like The Bachelor, and Dancing with the Stars (and the one making the loudest gagging noises is my own boyfriend but hey, I’m a drama queen, I love drama and am comfortable with it.)

With that said, Sunday night on Dancing with the Stars finale, and last night with Bachelor’s final episode I witnessed two injustices, and while both are different, they’ve impacted me the same.

I lie in bed and think, this is wrong.

Bachelor–the sexy doctor fell for a great girl, a pretty bubbly Kindergarten teacher from his own hometown, Nashville. How perfect is that? Not much more perfect, but I was surprised because I didn’t see a lot of chemistry between them. I saw them hug, and quick pecky kisses, but nothing hot and smoldering. Not like he had with Moana. Moana was surprised by his choice, too, and her shock, and anguish made me want to turn the t.v. off. She fell for this guy so hard, and she felt so happy and so comfortable and so pretty and sexy and smart and clever with him, that for her to discover he felt nothing of the sort, that he had in fact, fallen in love with Sara from Nashville, shattered her. On national television. And I felt evil for watching. And knowing. And turning out my lights and climbing into my bed with my heart intact while hers wasn’t. It might be real, but it didn’t seem fair.

But what makes it worse is that all along I was pulling for Sarah from Nashville. She seemed like such an underdog with all the glamour girls stacked on the show. I liked her because she wasn’t as plastic as some…she just seemed real and I thought that made her the underdog. Boy, was I wrong.

Which leads me to Dancing with the Stars finale. The beautiful, undeniably talented, remarkably focused Stacy Keibler and her professional partner Tony were standouts on the show all season. They were head and shoulders above most of the couples and yet in the last night, in the final round of public voting, they didn’t make the final two. She got the judges’ votes, but not the audience’s. Why not? She was gorgeous, and the judges adored her, and her endless legs and blonde smiling perfection made her amazing to watch…but were you pulling for her? Rooting for her? Wanting her to win more than anyone else?

Probably not. And I’ll tell you why.

She was too together. She looked like a champ, performed like a star, had the judges gushing, and received three or four sets of perfect scores…she didn’t need us. She didn’t need me. She was doing just fine on her own. (And if you’re wondering who I voted for it was Jerry Rice each and every week, although I did once cast a vote for Drew Lachey because he was good.)

But once Lisa was out. Once the beautiful leggy blonde had to sit down, she became mortal. And she became real. And she became loved.

And it’s not fair that we have to wait until we’re broken to be accepted. But the world loves a good story and there’s nothing more rousing than an underdog.

Problem is, do we ever truly know who the real underdog is? We all assumed it was Jerry Rice because he was NFL’s greatest wide receiver and unlikely dancer, but thinking on it more, maybe the gorgeous leggy blonde who made it all look so easy was the real underdog. Because how many American women sitting out there, watching this sexy, incredibly slim beauty wanted her to win? Based on my own favorites, I’d say not many. So who is the underdog now?

Chapter 1, Page 1

February 27, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

Yep. Today I started a new book for Harlequin, one I’m titling for my purposes, The Greek Tycoon’s Trembling Captive Virgin Bride. I think it pretty much sums up the story and characterization and should fly off the shelf.

I sat down to write early and am still at my desk at 8:43 pm and today I’ve made remarkable progress on my new book.

Let me share what I accomplished in a day of working:

His name is Zale Kavanos. (Zale is a Greek name for those of you who think I do not research).

Her name is Calla. Or Carla. No, Calla. Well, or Cloe. Good.

Oh? Calla Carla Calla Cloe’s last name? Gosh. You’re not going to believe this, but I didn’t get that far.

I do have a setting. Greece.

I have a conflict. They’re going to have to get married.

She’s poor. He’s rich. She’s just lost her grandmother and her home and everything she knows and he well, gets it all. Including her home, and everything she lost. Grandma, however, goes in the grave. Or vault. Or urn. I don’t have that part figured out yet.

And that’s really what I have.

That’s not a chapter you say. Not even a page. Huh.

Not even an opening sentence?

Excuse me. It takes a long long time to name characters. Seriously, give a character the wrong name and the book doesn’t work. I’ve battled for chapters in a book only to change a character’s name mid-novel and suddenly it all works. So naming is crucial. Naming requires research, analysis, application, and meditation and can easily take weeks. I feel incredibly successful having managed to name chracters in a day.

What’s that you say? I only had to name two? And I didn’t even name her completely? Well, there’s pressure. Fine. I’ll name her. Right now. I’m thinking, I’m visualizing the right name and for some reason I’m channeling….Shipley. That’s right. Calla Cloe Carla Shipley. Done.

And okay, you’re right. I need an opening line, just to say I’ve started chapter 1.

Close eyes, picture home following funeral in remote Greek village. Mist shrouded mountain, unseasonably cold, winter. Heroine standing outside closed library doors.

Here goes, fingers poised, ready to type…

‘Poor thing. She doesn’t even know yet. Her grandmother didn’t just leave her. She left her a million pounds in debt.’

Cut to Calla. Poor tender young thing. She’s stunned.

Wow. Good work, Jane. (Jane heartily shakes her own hand, claps herself cheerfully on the back.) You’ve done it again. Unbelievable. Sensational. You amaze me every day.

And now that my work is finally done, and it’s 8:59 better dash downstairs to watch the Bachelor in Paris finale.